


I Love You

by evokingmemories



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Infidelity, F/M, First Kiss, First Time, Guilty Arthur, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining Arthur, Post-Episode: s05e13 The Diamond of the Day, Post-Season/Series 05, Unresolved Sexual Tension, repressed arthur
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-26
Updated: 2020-08-26
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:55:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 37,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26117572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evokingmemories/pseuds/evokingmemories
Summary: Arthur has never let himself think about it. Not in any real way.He doesn’t touch it. He doesn’t look at it. He doesn’t gothere.And then: Camlann. Merlin telling Arthur about his magic. Arthur being furious and betrayed, and then, later, after it all clicks, accepting Merlin for who he is.Arthur ought to have died. He was prepared to, in the end. But Merlin ‒brilliantMerlin ‒ saves him with his magic, and he lives on.And that’s where it all goes to hell.
Relationships: Gwen/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 142
Kudos: 598





	I Love You

**Author's Note:**

> oh good god what the fuck is this!!
> 
> seriously i've spent the last two weeks agonizing over this fic lol. i've never written for merlin before, so i apologize in advance if this is shit. i worked really hard on it though so i hope ya'll enjoy! 
> 
> songs/quotes referenced in this fic:  
> 1) i love you - billie eilish (this is the song that directly inspired this fic, and then i just kind of branched off to general 'i love you' quotes and whatnot)  
> 2) heavy in your arms - florence + the machine  
> 3) first love/late spring - mitski  
> 4) mr. darcy quote from pride and prejudice (2005)
> 
> i'm sorry in advance about the sex scene at the end as it's SO bad but to give myself some credit this is my first ever attempt at writing anything explicit so please keep that in mind lmao. 
> 
> also i feel obligated to share the video the launched my 2020 merlin renaissance: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VBGos7fc2yc shoutout to this edit for literally dropkicking me back into merlin/arthur hell!!

* * *

_Maybe, won’t you take it back?_

_Say you were trying to make me laugh?_

_And nothing has to change today_ _—_

_You didn’t mean to say “I love you…”_

* * *

Arthur has never let himself think about it. Not in any real way. 

He doesn’t touch it. He doesn’t look at it. He doesn’t go _there.  
_

And then: Camlann. Merlin telling Arthur about his magic. Arthur being furious and betrayed, and then, later, after it all _clicks,_ accepting Merlin for who he is. 

Arthur ought to have died. He was prepared to, in the end. But Merlin ‒ _brilliant_ Merlin ‒ saves him with his magic, and he lives on. 

It’s wondrous. _Perfect._ Like something straight out of a fairy tale. Arthur rides back to Camelot, best friend at his side, after three or so days of falling in and out of sleep on the way home. He shows up at the steps of the castle like a figure of legend. He embraces his queen and greets his knights and the people give shouts of adoration at his miraculous survival. 

And yet. 

The night of his return, Arthur lies in bed, the soft mattress and pillow almost discomforting after his harrowing journey through the woods with Merlin. 

But more unsettling than anything is the feeling that grips him as the night grows dark. It’s so very _heavy._ Visceral. 

Frightening.

Gaius gives him a draught to help ease the pain of his recovery ‒ Merlin’s magic may have healed him, but he still feels like utter shit ‒ as well as aid his sleep, and yet Arthur finds he does not feel the least bit tired. 

He stares up at the canopy that hangs above him. He thinks: _it’s red as blood._ Like the blood that had soaked his body, hot and slithering under his armor, by the time Merlin brought him to the treeline, where he’d collapsed, unable to move on. 

He thinks of it now, closing his eyes and letting the memory fill his mind. The feeling gets heavier yet. 

_“I’m not going to lose you.” Merlin’s voice is desperation and terror, hidden under a veneer of bravado._

_“Just, just….just hold me.” That’s Arthur._

_And then: “Thank you.”_

_Arthur reaches up. Grips the back of Merlin’s head with his shaking, dying palm. Then his vision spots, and everything is going black._

_And then Merlin is saying “stay with me” in this voice that Arthur’s never heard him use before. Not for_ him. _And he comes to for a moment, because in the midst of all the incoherent thoughts and images whirling around in his fading mind, he thinks that he’d probably crawl from the pits of hell itself to hear that voice again._

 _But Arthur isn’t that strong. It all goes black anyways, and it’s by_ Merlin’s _strength alone_ ‒ _by his fucking_ inability _to let Arthur come to any sort of harm, let alone death_ ‒ _that he’s brought back from the brink._

Arthur’s eyes snap open. He stares at the blood-red canopy. That feeling arises in his chest, and it’s so completely terrifying, so impossible, and he can’t look it in the face. He can’t. _He can’t._

_[I’m not going to lose you._

_Stay with me._

_Just hold me.]_

Until, in this moment, he does. 

He sits up in bed, reaches over the side, grabs the pot that Gaius had set down next to it and retches until his throat bleeds. 

* * *

Merlin is there when he wakes the next morning.

The first shafts of daylight sneak in through the gaps in the curtains, casting slivers of gold on the floor. Merlin has brought a chair from his table over to Arthur’s bedside, where he sits with his legs tucked into his chest. His eyes are open, but his head is turned to the side, and he has yet to notice that Arthur has awoken. 

He looks exhausted, to put it lightly. There are deep, dark circles under his eyes. His hair is ruffled and his clothes are a wrinkled mess. 

Abruptly, Arthur is reminded of another moment in time, where Merlin had looked much the same.

_“I didn’t want you to feel that you were alone.”_

He thinks about that look he’d seen in Merlin’s eyes ‒ the sheer devotion ‒ and bites his lip, closing his own eyes and feeling a million different emotions hit him all at once. 

All this time. Ten years of Merlin protecting him with magic, with Arthur none the wiser. He thinks of all the hell Merlin has had to go through _alone,_ thinks of the fear and the shame he must’ve felt, and now Arthur is feeling ill again. He shifts uncomfortably from the nausea that arises in him, and Merlin, of course, notices the movement, his head immediately turning, eyes snapping up to meet Arthur’s. 

“Arthur,” he says. It’s just one word ‒ one name ‒ and yet Merlin somehow manages to fit so much _feeling_ into it that it makes Arthur’s chest twist with something unnameable. 

He thinks of the night before, then. Of his realization that perhaps he can put a name to that feeling, and the chamber pot next to the bed. He thinks to himself: _you’re the fucking king, Arthur Pendragon. Push it down, down,_ down. 

“Merlin,” he responds. His lips quirk up in the smallest of smiles, and he’s prepared to say some sort of clever quip ‒ _I see you’ve forgotten my breakfast yet again,_ or _you’re looking worse than me, and I nearly just died_ ‒ but what comes out is: “I’m sorry.”

He’s not sure why he’s said it, to be honest. He only knows that it feels right. Merlin looks sad and tired and after everything they’ve been through together, Arthur can’t bring himself to utter anything that isn’t an apology. 

Merlin’s eyebrows pull together, just so. He shakes his head, and his legs fall to the floor as he shifts closer to Arthur. “No, no, Arthur. _I’m_ sorry. You ‒ I ‒ all this time, I’ve been lying to you, deceiving you. I never wanted to, I swear, but I did, and I’m so, so ‒”

Somehow, Arthur garners enough energy to put a hand in the air, effectively cutting Merlin off. “Stop. Apologizing. Merlin.” 

Reluctantly, Merlin’s mouth snaps shut. His blue eyes widen slightly, and it occurs to Arthur that Merlin is scared. 

Surely he doesn’t still think that Arthur is going to harm him? He can’t even think of the _other_ word, of what must’ve been Merlin’s real fear all these years. Images flash in his mind, of fire and an axe, of blood and screaming and _Merlin_ and _fuck_ ‒

Arthur manages to choke out “chamber pot,” and Merlin scrambles out of the chair, grabbing it and thrusting it into Arthur’s arms just in time. 

He’s got nothing in his stomach after the night before, so he just dry heaves for a bit until the wave of sickness passes, leaving him shaky and sweaty. 

And then Merlin is there, chair abandoned, kneeling by Arthur’s bedside. He reaches out, as if to brush Arthur’s sweat-soaked hair back from his forehead, but hesitates. His hand falls back to his side and he stands up, backing away a bit.

Arthur is struck, then, with a sudden, inexplicable flash of anger, and before he can think better of it he snaps, “You can _touch_ me, Merlin. I’m not going to…”

He trails off, but they both know what he meant to say. _Hurt you._

As if Arthur could ever do anything remotely close to truly hurting Merlin. As if he wouldn’t walk to the very ends of the earth to strike down anyone who’d dare to do so. 

_As if I haven’t already,_ Arthur thinks, recalling all of the times he’d dashed off towards danger to save his manservant’s life. And then that gets him wondering how many times Merlin has saved _his_ life, and then Arthur’s looking up at Merlin, who’s still standing by his bedside looking like a startled deer, and he says, “I thought we’d settled this.”

Frowning a little, Merlin reaches out, taking the chamber pot from Arthur and setting it on the ground before sitting back down in his chair. He scoots it up, closer to the bed. The tension in Arthur’s chest loosens, just a bit. “What do you mean?”

Arthur rolls his eyes. “Come on. You know.” He waves a hand meaninglessly, leaning back to sit against his pillows. 

“I don’t, actually,” Merlin says, but the vaguely daring look in his eyes makes his words moot.

Arthur sighs. Of course Merlin is going to make him say it. He wouldn’t expect anything less, and although it’s a bit irritating, he can’t help but be relieved by the reappearance of Merlin’s stubbornness. 

_It’s what got us into this mess, after all,_ Arthur thinks. More images flash in his mind, and this time, it’s of a younger version of Merlin, foot resting on a fallen target and a playful smirk on his lips. 

_“What are you going to do to me?”_

_“You have no idea.”_

Arthur looks into Merlin’s unyielding gaze and realizes just how right he was, from the very beginning. 

“Your magic,” he says, finally. He’s proud when the words come out strong and unwavering. 

Something lightens up Merlin’s face ‒ a brief flash of pride, maybe. He’s silent, though, giving Arthur room to think and speak his mind. It’s still a hell of a lot to deal with, after all. He can’t even begin to imagine everything he doesn’t know.

All of the secrets. The lies. The word _deception_ slithers into his mind, and that sense of betrayal is still there, it would seem, hiding underneath his other feelings of guilt and shame and ‒

Arthur sucks in a quiet breath. _Down, down, down._

“I know you’re still upset, Arthur.”

He looks up to see Merlin gazing at him. And although there’s a deep sadness written in the lines of his face, there’s also a whole lot of understanding. 

“I would be,” he continues. He pulls his knees back up to his chest, wrapping his arms around them. His gaze flits away from Arthur’s, fixing on something unseen. “If it were the other way around, and I found out you were...lying...to me, for so long, I’d…” He sighs. “I know I’d be hurt.” His eyes meet Arthur’s once more, and the intensity in them is hot enough that Arthur almost wants to look away. 

He doesn’t.

“I understand if you want to take it back.”

Arthur frowns. “Take what back?”

Merlin shifts uncomfortably. “You know. Your...acceptance. Of me. Of my magic.” When Arthur doesn’t say anything ‒ he’s too busy being railed by waves of pure guilt, yet again ‒ he adds, “You were dying, after all. It’s only natural that you’d say things you might not truly mean.”

Arthur’s heart clenches at that, and he realizes that he wants to ask ‒ _did you?_

Did Merlin say things he didn’t mean, simply because Arthur was dying? When he whispered _stay with me_ in that broken voice, was it real? When he touched his hand, so gentle, to Arthur’s cheek that night by the campfire, was it only to comfort a man who was not long for this world? 

“I meant it.” 

Merlin’s eyes widen and his lips part, and he’s staring at Arthur as if he’s just retrieved the moon from the sky and is holding it out to him in his palm, saying _take it, please._

“Really?” It’s barely a whisper. 

“Really.” 

Something in Merlin changes, then. His entire body seems to relax, and he sinks back into the chair, uncurling his legs and offering Arthur a soft smile.

“Thank you, Arthur.”

It’s not unlike Arthur’s own _thank you_ ‒ filled with all the knowledge of what has passed between them. 

And not unlike Arthur’s own _thank you,_ it sounds a lot like something else entirely. 

* * *

Arthur rests for a total of three days before he finally gets antsy in a way that can’t be simply ignored. Much to the chagrin of Merlin and Guinevere and Gaius ‒ and, well, _everyone_ ‒ he gets out of bed on the fourth morning with thunder in his eyes and says, “I’m perfectly well, now. I’m the King of Camelot and I have duties to attend to.” 

He still feels a bit tired, but Gaius’s draughts are enough to help him get through the days that follow. He spends most of them in council meetings, sitting at his usual spot at the round table and discussing post-battle plans and arrangements. 

Guinevere sits on his right, and it’s a blessed comfort to have her there. Her mere presence ‒ calm, yet shining with love and strength ‒ is enough to help ease the stress that he feels as he orders funeral ceremonies for those who fell in the battle (he thinks of Gwaine and his heart _twists_ ), as he figures out the best foreign policies going forward. 

Yet, as he catches her eye for the fifth or so time one day, about an hour into a meeting, he’s overcome with a sudden twist of guilt as he remembers the night of his return to Camelot, of the feelings that became so clear and apparent in one single moment. 

He reaches for Gwen’s hand under the table and squeezes it, offering her a soft smile. She returns it unwaveringly, completely unaware of the quiet turmoil that has begun to stir in his gut. 

Releasing Gwen’s hand, he turns to his left, and as Sir Leon continues on about his proposal of a celebration to raise citizen morale, sees Merlin shift from the corner of his eye.

It’s just a glimpse of red and grey, of his light brown jacket, but it’s enough to compel Arthur to, almost unknowingly, subconsciously, turn his head, meeting Merlin’s eyes full on. 

His place is normally behind Arthur, a few feet back, but today he’s opted to instead stand up against the stone wall to Arthur’s left. When their eyes catch, his mouth tilts up in the smallest of reassuring smiles, probably assuming that this is all Arthur really wants ‒ reassurance. After all, Merlin’s given it a thousand times before, whether in the council chambers or on the battlefield or huddled around the campfire in the midst of a dangerous quest. 

But that’s not what Arthur is after, because he keeps looking at his manservant, without even really knowing _why._ Merlin’s small smile fades, and something a lot like curiosity, mixed with a bit of concern, flits across his face. 

“...sire?”

Arthur jumps, head turning, eyes snapping back to Leon. The red haired knight is giving him a puzzled look. In fact, now that Arthur is actually paying attention, he realizes that almost everyone seated at the table is wearing the same expression, all laced with varying degrees of concern. 

He can’t help it; his face flushes at being caught looking, and then comes the panic. He looks at each of them in turn, almost assessing, as if he could somehow decipher if any of them _know._

“Are you alright, my lord?” Leon asks. 

And it’s a well-meaning question, really, and Leon is one of Arthur’s most trusted knights, but his question, on top of all the _fussing_ that everyone has been doing over him, on top of being caught _staring_ at his manservant ‒ it’s enough to make him hot with sudden anger. 

“I’m quite alright, Sir Leon,” he bites out, not even attempting to conceal the venom in his voice. “In fact, I’d greatly appreciate it if you all treated me as what I am. That is, your _king._ Not some wounded child.” He narrows his eyes, casting his gaze around the table, meeting each of his advisors’ eyes individually. “Is that clear?”

There are a number of nods and an uneven chorus of _yes, sire_ and _of course, my lord,_ and the meeting proceeds as is typical, albeit a bit more tense than usual. 

All the while, Merlin stands up against the wall. And although Arthur isn’t looking at him, he can feel his manservant’s eyes on him. 

When Arthur dismisses the meeting about a half hour later, he gets up and strides from the council hall without a backward glance. 

* * *

That evening, Arthur realizes, quite out of nowhere, that he wants to know everything. 

He’s already put some of it together. Merlin’s magic is the perfect puzzle piece, fitting in perfectly and smoothing out all of the rough edges of the last ten years he and his manservant have spent together. 

All of that “good luck,” all of the convenient branches fallen atop of enemies, all of the times Arthur has been miraculously brought back from the brink of death ‒ the latest incident not even included. 

It was all Merlin. He knows it.

Yet he wants to hear Merlin say it. He wants the details, wants to hear Merlin’s side of it all. Because he’d be lying if he said he’s not still feeling a bit betrayed, and there are approximately a thousand questions that he’s spent the last few days turning over and over in his mind while turning over and over on his mattress, unable to fall asleep. 

He needs an in-depth explanation. He needs the complete truth. 

So, as the evening sweeps darkness over the streets of Camelot, Arthur sends a servant to summon Merlin to his chambers. Then, he pulls two chairs from his table, over to the fireplace. It crackles softly, a bit pitiful, not having been stoked in hours, and Arthur thinks: _I’ll have Merlin fix it when he gets here._

The thought is instinctual, but it’s followed by a quiet sort of shock that he would ask Merlin ‒ Merlin, who is a _sorcerer,_ and gods, that’s still strange to think ‒ to use his magic so casually after years of watching men and women be executed for the very same thing. 

He thinks of all the years he spent by his father’s side, watching weeping people ‒ _children_ ‒ go to the chopping block, or the stake, using their very last words to swear y _our majesty, I meant no harm, I meant no harm!_

How many innocent lives were lost to his father’s hatred?

But that’s making it too easy. That’s laying the blame elsewhere, when Arthur knows good and well that by doing nothing, he may as well have executed those people himself. 

He wonders, not for the first time since Merlin revealed his magic, what would have happened if his manservant had gotten caught while Uther had been king.

Then, perhaps it’s silly to wonder at all, because Arthur knows, deep down, no matter how much he wants to deny it, that his father would have had Merlin killed without a second thought. Arthur could’ve pleaded, begged on his knees, and it wouldn’t have made a difference. 

He realizes he has no idea how to reconcile these two pictures of his father: the man who ruthlessly executed innocents, and the man who would’ve died for his son in an instant, who loved him more than Camelot, even. 

_But did he?_

After all, if Uther had truly loved Arthur more than Camelot, then surely he would have spared Merlin for his sake? For if Merlin had died at his father’s hand, Arthur knows he could have never found it within himself to forgive him. 

Would Uther have been willing to lose Arthur for the sake of his crusade against sorcery? He sinks into the chair by the fireplace, puts his head into his hands, and realizes with a deep pain that he’ll never get an answer. 

He’s not sure he wants one.

There’s a tentative knock at the door. 

“Come in.”

It opens and shuts with a soft swoosh, the familiar sound of Merlin’s boots against the stone floors of his chambers echoing in the quiet castle air. 

Arthur doesn’t move. He stays bent over, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. He hears Merlin walk over to the cabinet by his bed, hears him pull out a jug and two cups before pattering back over to the table. There’s the quiet trickle of wine being poured, and then, a moment later, Merlin’s presence by his side. 

Familiar. Warm, almost, although Arthur supposes that could be the fire. 

Which reminds him. 

Arthur leans up, sitting back in his chair and fixing Merlin with a hard look. “Light the fire.”

Merlin holds out a cup of wine, which Arthur gratefully takes, and quirks a single eyebrow. There’s the barest hint of amusement in his dark blue eyes. “It’s already lit.”

Arthur waves the hand that isn’t holding his cup and takes a long drink. Heaven knows he’ll need it to get through this. “You know what I mean. Make it...stronger.”

Merlin chuckles, and it’s a soft sound, but it does the job of easing the tension well enough. “Warmer, you mean?”

“Yes, Merlin ‒ hotter, bigger, _better._ Whatever.” He takes another drink and watches as Merlin moves to the fireplace and bends down, reaching for the fire poker. Arthur sighs. 

“Not like _that._ With your magic.”

Merlin looks at him over his shoulder. “Are you…”

“ _Y_ _es,_ Merlin, I’m quite sure. Just stoke the bloody fire, would you?”

There’s that same quiet laugh, then, and Arthur’s hand clenches around his cup as he feels the sound send a wave of pure warmth right through him. 

“Pushy,” Merlin mutters, but reaches out a hand anyway. “ _Baern,”_ he whispers, although Arthur imagines that the spoken spell is just for show, since he’d lit that one in the forest without muttering a single thing. 

The fire surges in height and warmth, burning bright and casting a yellow-orange glow across the chamber walls. The sight of it, of seeing Merlin bring the element of fire under his command so easily, makes Arthur feel strange. 

There’s wonder. Admiration, perhaps. And, if Arthur’s being completely honest with himself, a bit of fear. He has spent most of his life being taught that sorcery is pure evil, after all, of witnessing witches and warlocks wreak havoc on his kingdom, on the people he loves. 

And, deep, deep down, there’s something else, too. Something that makes his blood thrum, that makes his palms warm and his breath come quicker. 

_Down, down, down._

He takes another gulp of wine. “Thank you, Merlin,” he says, and feels a rush of relief when the words come out sounding normal, rather than choked. 

Merlin stands up and goes to sit in the second chair, set strategically across from Arthur, rather than next to, as they usually do. He wants to see Merlin’s face as he talks. Wants to see the truth in his eyes, instead of just hearing it from his mouth. 

“I want you to tell me everything,” he says, because there’s no point in beating around the bush. They both know why Merlin is here.

Merlin doesn’t answer right away, and Arthur looks up at him. His manservant has both hands around his cup, one palm clenched around its center and the other held above its rim, one finger tracing the circle thoughtfully.

And Arthur just stares and stares and wonders how many times those hands have been used to save his life. How many times Merlin has lifted them in defiance, eyes flashing ‒

_Gold._

He realizes that ever since Merlin revealed himself as a sorcerer, all the magic he’s done has been performed while turned away from him. Arthur has dealt with enough sorcerers to know that their eyes alight when using their magic, and out of nowhere he is struck with the urgent want ‒ no, the _need_ ‒ to see Merlin’s blue eyes flash with gold. 

He shoves the urge away, trying not to dwell on why he’s having it in the first place, even while his traitor heart whispers _you know damn well why._

Merlin finally answers. “That might take a while.”

Arthur shrugs. “We have all night.”

“I’m not sure that’s enough time, to be honest,” Merlin says, and though his mouth turns up in amusement, his eyes, flickering in the firelight, look entirely serious. 

In that moment, Arthur realizes that Merlin’s service to him, his loyalty, goes far beyond what he’s imagining. It’s written into Merlin’s very body, into the way he holds himself as he gazes into the fire. There’s a tiredness there. A wisdom born from years of keeping secrets and sacrificing, of hiding and fearing for his life. 

Arthur takes a deep breath. Merlin’s eyes flick over to meet his, and that same breath catches in his throat. 

He exhales. Says, “I need to hear it. I need to hear it all, Merlin. No more lies.” 

Merlin nods in acceptance. “Okay,” he says, and finally takes a drink of his own wine. Then, he sets the cup on the floor ‒ Arthur supposes he’ll need a clear head to get all the details right ‒ looks up at him, and, to Arthur’s surprise, a smile alights his lips. 

“It all began the day I came to Camelot,” he says, “and came face to face with a royal prat.”

Something in Arthur’s chest eases. He smiles back.

* * *

It’s a very long story.

He begins with the witch, Mary Collins, who’d impersonated Lady Helen in her attempt to assassinate Arthur. This is a story he knows well. 

What he hadn’t known, however, was that Merlin had slowed the dagger by using magic. 

A flicker of anger alights in him and he hisses, “You used magic in front of my _father_?” He shakes his head. “Christ, Merlin. Sometimes I think you really do have a death wish.”

“Only when it comes to you, Arthur,” he says, so casually, and Arthur asks Merlin to move on with the story because he can’t ‒ won’t ‒ think of the implications of those words, teasing as they may be. 

He learns that Merlin is the one who sent the light to guide him while Arthur was out looking for the mortaeus flower, learns that Merlin is the one who made the sword that Arthur pulled from the stone those four years ago. 

His eye twitches as he listens to this particular part of the tale. “So you _did_ make that story up.” He sighs. “I thought it was horseshit, but then I actually pulled the sword out, and…”

He trails off. His eyes snap up to Merlin’s. “That was _magic._ I didn’t do anything!”

Merlin shrugs, but has the decency to look sheepish. “Arthur, you should have seen yourself. You were so lost, so confused, I…” When his eyes meet Arthur’s, there’s this softness to them that, quite irritatingly, saps almost all the anger out of him. “...I just wanted to help you.”

Arthur decides to let it go, nodding curtly, but only because Merlin is looking damn near wounded in the face of Arthur’s anger, and he’s so tired of Merlin being _sad._ He’s been wearing the same expression for the past year, that look of weariness and melancholy, and a part of Arthur, however buried, really just wants to see that cheeky smile he’s grown used to. 

The anger returns, however, when Merlin tells the truth of the incident with the Questing Beast. 

He stands up, nearly empty wine cup clenched in his hand so hard his knuckles turn white, and the chair screeches on the stone floor as it skids. “Merlin, you fucking _idiot._ ”

There are a million different words floating around in his head ‒ many of them furious, many of them strangely _scared_ ‒ but he finally settles on, “It is not your job to sacrifice yourself for me. You are my _servant,_ Merlin, a member of my household, and it’s my duty to protect you! Not let you toss your life away as if…”

 _As if it means nothing._ As if Merlin dying wouldn’t have ripped a hole right through the center of his chest, even then. 

He imagines what Merlin must’ve looked like, approaching Nimue. Imagines Merlin as he was back then ‒ nineteen years-old, a _boy,_ ready to give his life for a prince who had done nothing to earn such unwavering loyalty. The image makes him ill, and he slowly sits back down in his chair, feeling faint. 

Unsure if it’s the wine or the heaviness of the truth causing him to feel so off-kilter, he decides to set his own cup on the floor. He has to face this head-on, he realizes. Using drink as a buffer for the pain is cowardice. 

“I had to,” Merlin says softly. “You were ‒ _are_ ‒ my destiny, Arthur. I couldn’t let you die, not when I knew there was something I could do to stop it.”

And there’s that word again. _Destiny._ He wonders how many times it will come up tonight, and asks himself the question that’s been bubbling under the surface of his mind for days, now. 

_Is destiny all it is?_

* * *

The tale stretches on and on, filled with more stories of danger and sacrifice, and, of course, magic. Arthur feels in turn scared, angry, and, in many cases, completely filled with awe. 

He also feels guilt. Shame. That much isn’t new. 

Merlin tells him of Balinor ‒ Balinor, who had been Merlin’s _father_ ‒ and Arthur recalls the moment after the dragonlord’s death, when Merlin had cried and Arthur had later told him, “ _No man is worth your tears."_

As if sensing Arthur’s turmoil, Merlin pauses in his story, watching as Arthur imitates his pose from earlier that evening, sinking down to put his head between his hands. Waves of guilt wash over him, hitting him ruthlessly, cold as a winter sea crashing against a rocky shore. 

“He was your father,” Arthur says, and it’s a mere whisper. “Your _father,_ and I ‒ I didn’t ‒ I just ‒”

He doesn’t even know how to express the pure pain he feels on his friend’s behalf, how to tell him how deeply sorry he is. But he tries. 

Lifting his head up, he says, “I should’ve been there for you, Merlin. Your father died, and I didn’t even know. I couldn’t help you.” He meets Merlin’s eyes, sees the quiet pain on his manservant’s face. It’s an old grief, Arthur knows, but he also knows what it means to lose a father. Those wounds never truly heal.

Arthur’s whole body suddenly goes cold. For the second time in days, he thinks of that morning after his father’s death, when Merlin had been waiting for him outside the doors. 

For him. _For him._ To be next to Arthur in his grief, even if it meant spending the night on a cold stone floor.

And what had Arthur done when Balinor died? He’d cursed. He’d been furious at the loss of Camelot’s last chance against the dragon. He’d hardly spared a thought for Merlin. 

“It’s not your fault, Arthur,” Merlin says. “You didn’t know.”

_Because I didn’t tell you._

And Arthur should feel angry about that. 

He doesn’t. He just feels sad. Sad and so very ashamed.

* * *

More stories. More secrets revealed. It’s hours in, now, and the night has settled into a heavy darkness. 

Arthur feels tired, and not just because of the late hour. With each word that comes out of Merlin’s mouth, he’s thrust deeper and deeper into the throes of guilt. There are moments of reprieve, like when Merlin tells the truth story of the goblin, but it’s mostly tale upon tale of pain that Merlin has experienced out of his strange, completely _baffling_ imperative to protect Arthur at all costs. 

It’s when he’s retold the story of the sword in the stone that the blasted word comes up again. Arthur finally cracks. 

“Can you please explain why you keep saying that?” he snaps, interrupting Merlin’s feeble explanations for why he deceived Arthur with his little story about the sword. 

Merlin frowns. “Saying what?”

“ _D_ _estiny._ You said it when I was dying, and you keep saying it now.”

Unbidden, the memory, as they have been all damn week, hits him out of nowhere. 

_Merlin, sitting down next to Arthur. “One more day,” he pleads._

_Arthur. Staring off into the quiet forest, feeling Merlin slip his arm through his own, feeling the cool, tender press of a cloth against his cheeks, his forehead._

_He asks the question that’s been burning him up, that’s been on the tip of his tongue since Merlin first created a fucking dragon out of fire, since Arthur’s entire worldview got flipped on its head._

_“Why did you never tell me?”_

_“I wanted to, but…”_

_“What?” The word comes out sounding almost delicate. If it were any other situation, Arthur might berate himself for showing such blatant vulnerability._

_But he’s dying, and he’s sad and confused and his best friend of ten years is a_ sorcerer. _If there’s any time where wallowing and insecurity is justified, it’s now._

_Merlin’s lips quirk up. “You would’ve chopped my head off.”_

_And Arthur knows instantly that he wouldn’t have, he_ wouldn’t _have_ ‒ _but he’s also not sure what exactly he_ would _have done, and says as much._

_“And I didn’t want to put you into that position.”_

_And that’s when it clicks. He turns to meet Merlin’s eyes for the first time since they started talking, and there’s something there that is so full, so warm, and Arthur can’t look away._

_“That’s what worried you?” he asks, because, really? Out of all the things that Merlin must’ve feared_ ‒ _banishment, pain,_ execution ‒ _the thing he feared most was putting Arthur in a bad spot? In forcing him to...what? Make a tough choice?_

 _He wants to say that, wants to exclaim: “I’m the bloody king, Merlin, I make tough choices all damn day long,” but he’s just silent because Merlin is still looking at him with those_ eyes, _as if Arthur is the very sun in the sky._

_“Some men are born to plow fields. Others live to be great physicians. Others...to be great kings.”_

_Merlin’s gaze locks on Arthur’s. His heart beats fast and hard in his chest._

_“I was born to serve you, Arthur. I’m proud of that. And I wouldn’t change a thing.”_

_And that’s the moment Arthur knows. When he realizes what’s hiding beneath the loyalty and devotion in Merlin’s eyes._

_But even then, he can’t bring himself to fully acknowledge it. It slots right into place_ ‒ _the_ true _final puzzle piece_ ‒ _but he only lets the thought live for a moment for desperately scrambling to extinguish it._

_Merlin asks, “Ready?” and Arthur nods, and they move on._

Now, he looks up at Merlin. Locks eyes with him. For a moment, there is naught but silence between them ‒ perhaps the longest stretch since Merlin began his story. 

Finally, Merlin asks, “Do you know what the dragon told me when I first came to Camelot?”

Arthur’s gut twists with anger at the mention of Kilgharrah, but he keeps his temper in check, shaking his head. 

“I went to him, maybe a week or so after I started working for you.” Merlin gives the smallest of smirks. “I was complaining about you.”

“Shocking,” Arthur says dryly. “At least that much hasn’t changed.”

Merlin’s smile widens for a moment, before fading into something softer. “He told me, _a half cannot truly hate that which makes it whole._ ”

The words make Arthur’s breath catch. His hands start to tingle and he shifts in his chair, feeling oddly hot all over. _Maybe Merlin ought to lessen the fire a little,_ he thinks, and casts his gaze to the floor because there’s no way in hell he’s looking his manservant in the eye right now. 

_A half cannot truly hate that which makes it whole._

And really ‒ Arthur has gotten quite good at this “pushing down feelings” thing, but the implications of that sentence are exceedingly difficult to ignore. 

Merlin plows on. “The first time we ever met, he told me that you and I shared a destiny. One that’s been prophesied for centuries, apparently. He said that you were the Once and Future King, meant to unite Albion and bring magic back to the land. And he told me that I was meant to help you. That it was my ‒”

“‒ destiny,” Arthur finishes, because _of course._ It all makes sense, now.

Merlin’s excessive need to protect him, to ensure Arthur’s safety no matter the cost. It’s never been about _him._ It’s about this prophecy. About his destiny. 

He’s feeling something strange, this odd mix of vague relief and something cold and dark, crushing and _sad,_ when Merlin says ‒

“I think I messed it up, though. Towards the end.”

Arthur frowns. “What do you mean?”

Merlin gives a deep, heavy sigh, a sound that’s so burdened, so melancholy, that it makes Arthur’s chest ache. 

“That comes in later.”

* * *

Merlin tells him about Mordred, next, and suddenly Merlin’s uncharacteristic coldness towards the Druid boy ‒ something Arthur spent the better part of a year trying to decipher ‒ makes sense. 

“I couldn’t figure out why you were acting so strangely,” Arthur mutters, rubbing his forehead. Even now, Merlin’s eyes burn with something akin to hatred, and the sight of it gives Arthur the shivers. 

Because surely that’s not Merlin? Right?

Merlin is sweetness and kindness. He’s endlessly compassionate and always seeks out the best parts of people, often to his own detriment. The darkness born of hate looks so wrong on him because Merlin has always been so full of _light._

But Arthur would be naive to ignore the quiet melancholy that has clouded his manservant’s aura for the past year or so, or to think that the bright young man who stumbled ‒ and saved ‒ his way into Arthur’s service a decade ago hasn’t changed. 

Of course he has. All of them have changed. Yet the thought of Merlin losing that innocence, that sheer goodness that has been a guiding light in Arthur’s darkest times, is worse. He looks up into Merlin’s eyes ‒ flinty in the firelight ‒ and thinks that he’d do just about anything to keep him from growing any colder. 

“He’s dead now, Merlin,” Arthur says softly. “It’s over.”

Merlin sucks in a deep breath. Shakes his head. His fingers are clenching, pressing into his palms and out, again and again. He looks away from Arthur, towards the fire, and Arthur knows, instinctively, what he’s about to say.

“I should’ve killed him.”

The words are quiet, but hard as stone. A chill sweeps over Arthur. 

“No, Merlin. He hadn’t done anything wrong. You did the right ‒”

Now it’s Merlin’s turn to be furious. He stands up, pushes his chair away and goes to stand in front of the fireplace. His hands are clenched in fists at his sides. 

“He almost _killed_ you, Arthur!” He flips around suddenly, facing Arthur, and his face is painted with a fury that he’s never seen on his manservant’s face before. 

In an instant, though, it shifts to something mournful. Merlin’s voice cracks when he says, “You almost _died,_ and I…” he trails off, putting his head in his hands.

And then it’s like all the strength, all the anger, suddenly leaks out of him, leaving only sadness in its wake. He sinks down in his chair, hands still covering his face. 

Arthur wishes he knew what to do. He wishes he knew how to comfort his friend, how to make it all better. Seeing Merlin upset has always twisted his heart, but now, knowing that it’s the thought of Arthur’s death that makes him so grief-ridden, the twist is accompanied by guilt. 

Merlin’s hands fall from his face, and when he looks up at Arthur, his eyes are red-rimmed. “I don’t know what I would’ve done.” The words are only a whisper, yet so terribly loud in the otherwise silent room. “If you died. I don’t...I…” He shakes his head minutely. “I think a part of me would’ve just...died with you.” 

_A half cannot hate that which makes it whole._ The words echo in Arthur’s mind. He knows exactly what Merlin means.

He thinks back to that time, four years ago, when Merlin ‒ stupidly loyal, _brave_ Merlin ‒ threw himself in the path of the doracha to save Arthur. He remembers the sheer panic he’d felt in that moment, and the relief that had flooded through him when he’d watched Merlin breath once more. 

And he remembers watching Merlin ride away on the back of that horse, remembers barely holding back tears, because God forbid his men see the grief that was burning all through him, _choking_ him. He remembers thinking: _I cannot lose him._

All these years, Arthur has been trying to shove that knowledge away ‒ that Merlin is essential. That Arthur, despite all that he says, needs him, as much as he needs food and water and air. That losing Merlin would be like losing a limb, like losing his own beating heart. 

Because if he admitted that ‒ if he was honest with himself about Merlin’s importance in his life ‒ where did that leave them? What did it mean? What did it say about their relationship ‒ about their feelings? 

The feeling that had washed over him that first night in Camelot surges up within him, all-encompassing and awful, bright and brutal, as he looks into Merlin’s stricken eyes. It crashes into him, wave after wave, and he breathes in deep. Shuts his eyes and looks away because he can’t do this, he _can’t._

 _Push it down, down, down,_ he tells himself, but Merlin is sitting right in front of him, so open and vulnerable, and Arthur can’t just pretend that this conversation isn’t happening, that Merlin hasn’t just admitted that Arthur’s death would, more or less, destroy him. 

That Arthur hasn’t, on some level, known the same all along.

“Arthur?” Merlin asks, so quietly. So softly. But it’s also a question, perhaps, asking him: _do you feel it, too?_

Overwhelmed, Arthur stands up, moving to the fireplace and putting his hands on the mantle. He sucks in deep, long breaths, trying to do so quietly, so that Merlin can’t surmise the turmoil that’s turning his insides into a whirlwind. 

He can’t think about this right now. Not with Merlin right there, watching him. He’s afraid that if he turns ‒ if he lets their eyes catch ‒ then Merlin will be able to see it there, on his face. He’ll know. 

And Arthur cannot let him know because _this cannot happen._

He digs his fingers into the stone of the mantle, lets the pain flood his senses. A few moments pass, and eventually the feeling begins to recede, until he finally feels calm enough to turn and sit back down in his chair. 

He meets Merlin’s eyes. 

He’s sitting back in his chair, hands playing with the hem of his shirt, but his gaze is locked on Arthur’s. His eyebrows are pulled together in concern. 

“Are you okay?”

Arthur nods sharply. “I’m fine, Merlin.” He tears his eyes away, looks to the crackling fire instead. It’s died down quite a bit over the past hour or so, so Arthur swallows thickly and asks, “Could you…?” he waves his hand in the direction of the fireplace. 

Merlin’s expression brightens at the request, and he nods, sitting up and holding out a hand. He repeats the same word from earlier ‒ _baern_ ‒ and although he really shouldn’t, although he ought to keep his eyes on the fire and watch the magic itself, Arthur instead watches Merlin. 

It’s only for a moment, but it’s there ‒ the shift of cerulean blue to pure gold. The sight makes Arthur’s heart pound in his ears, makes warmth flush all through him, and the feeling only gets stronger when Merlin lowers his hand and meets Arthur’s eyes. 

Arthur ought to look away. But he doesn’t. 

For once in his life, he lets himself drink in the sight of the man before him. His closest, dearest friend, with his dark hair and strong, high cheekbones and deep blue eyes that look right into his with the same exact intensity, with the same focus and curiosity and ‒

_No._

Arthur looks away. He always does, eventually.

* * *

It’s when Merlin tells him of the incident with the Dsir that his words from earlier ‒ _I think I messed it up, though. Towards the end_ ‒ make sense. 

He’s recounting the story rather quickly, as if he wants to get it over with and move onto another tale. As if there’s something he’s hiding, and _damn it,_ Arthur is tired of the secrets. 

“And then you asked me what I thought about it, and I told you, and you went back to the Dsir with your decision ‒”

The realization slaps Arthur in the face. 

_“So...what should we do? Accept magic or let Mordred die?”_

_Across the fire, Merlin is uncharacteristically quiet. But it’s more than that, Arthur thinks. His manservant looks genuinely conflicted. Upset, even. He sucks in a deep breath, gaze flickering back and forth along the ground, but never meeting Arthur’s._

_It’s only after a very long moment of consideration that Merlin finally looks up. That he finally gives Arthur his answer._

_“There can be no place for magic in Camelot.”_

“Merlin,” he cuts in. His manservant stops mid-sentence, and Arthur sees something not unlike panic flit across his face. 

“Yes?” 

Arthur leans forward in his chair, staring at Merlin in open, blatant shock. 

“You have magic, Merlin ‒ the strongest magic out there, apparently ‒ and yet you told me that there was no place for magic in Camelot?” Arthur shakes his head, mind buzzing with this new realization and what it means. “You were willing to let an innocent man die. _Why?"_

Merlin sighs in frustration. “Arthur, I _told_ you ‒ Mordred was destined to kill you! What was I supposed to do? Say yes and let the prophecy come true?” 

“Yes, Merlin! _Yes._ You would’ve finally been free. You wouldn’t have had to keep your secret anymore.” 

_From me_ are the unspoken words that hang in the air. 

“I mean ‒ isn’t that the whole point of the prophecy? You and me, working together to unite Albion and bring magic back to the land?”

To this, it seems Merlin has no reply. Or, rather, no reply that he’s comfortable voicing aloud. He seems to curl in on himself, somehow, eyes flicking away from Arthur to some space over his shoulder. 

“Merlin?” Arthur presses. 

“Stop, Arthur. Just…” Merlin shakes his head. “I don’t want...I don’t…”

“What?”

When the words come, they’re loud enough to shake the castle walls themselves. “I don’t want to admit that I _messed everything up!_ ” 

_I think I messed it up, though. Towards the end._

Is this what Merlin was talking about?

Merlin is staring into the fireplace, hands clenched on the arms of his chair. Arthur rises from his seat, slowly. He walks over to where Merlin sits, places a hand on his manservant’s shoulder and squeezes. Merlin doesn’t look away from the fireplace, but he bites his lip and Arthur notes that he’s trembling. 

“Merlin,” he says quietly. “It’s okay. You know you can tell me anything. I won’t judge you.”

The quiet air buzzes with tension. Arthur watches shadows flicker across the angles of Merlin’s face, watches as he finally draws himself up a little and looks towards Arthur, expression twisted with something that looks a lot like shame. 

“You’re right,” he says softly. “About the prophecy.” 

Sensing that Merlin is about to talk for a while, Arthur gives his shoulder one last squeeze and returns to his chair. He waits patiently for Merlin to continue, and after a long moment, he does. 

“When I first came to Camelot, and Kilgarrah told me about my destiny, I was...confused. Unsure. It didn’t make _sense._ But I trusted him.” Merlin gives a bitter laugh. “Of course I did. I’d spent my whole life with this incredible gift, but I lived in Ealdor, where there was little I could do with it. And then I found myself in Camelot, and here was this incredible creature ‒ this _magical_ creature, magic like _me_ ‒ telling me that I had some destiny. 

“It hardly mattered that my destiny involved you, because suddenly I had a purpose, you know? I had proof that my magic wasn’t just for tricks, for felling trees and helping crops grow back home. I was meant to do something _more._ And that was exciting. It felt _good._ Sure, you were a prat, and arrogant, and a bit of a bully.” He pauses to give Arthur a wry smile, and he can’t even find it within himself to protest, because he really had been pretty awful when he was younger, hadn’t he?

“But you were noble, too. Honorable. Brave.” Arthur flushes a little at that. He hadn’t realized Merlin had thought that of him, back then. “And eventually…” Merlin trails off, and his fond smile fades away, a shadow falling over his face. 

“What?” Arthur asks, so very softly, because he has a feeling that Merlin is about to say something important, and he has no intention of letting him wriggle his way out of the truth yet again. 

“Eventually, it stopped being about...that.” At Arthur’s questioning eyebrow, Merlin adds quietly, “Destiny, that is.”

Silence. 

Then ‒ “What do you mean?”

Merlin looks away from Arthur, fixing his gaze on the stone floor instead. His hands, folded in his lap, twist together, and Arthur realizes with no small amount of surprise that Merlin is _blushing._

“I’m not sure exactly _when,"_ Merlin goes on. “But at some point, I started to care less about destiny, about uniting Albion and bringing back magic, and more about…” he trails off, but then he gives Arthur a meaningful look and he suddenly _knows._

“Oh.”

It’s hardly the most eloquent thing he’s said, but Arthur is too shocked to respond with anything coherent. 

Merlin, who has spent ten years hiding his magic, something so _integral_ to his very being, had been willing to give up all his hopes and dreams of being free to be himself. 

Why? _For him._

For Arthur. 

Merlin’s destiny, _their_ destiny. He’d been willing to chuck it out the door, to throw it all away, in an attempt to prevent a future that might not have even occurred. All to keep Arthur safe. 

And although the guilt is back in full force, although there’s anger there, too (because how _dare_ Merlin do that, how _dare_ he sacrifice so much for Arthur’s sake? As if Arthur wouldn’t do anything to make Merlin happy, especially after this long year of seeing his once cheerful eyes turn cold and morose), Arthur can’t deny the feeling of pure _warmth_ that floods him. 

It’s sickening, isn’t it? He should be ashamed. And he is ‒ of course he is ‒ but he can’t help but feel so terribly happy to know that Merlin cares so much for him, that he’d be willing to do anything to keep him safe. 

It makes him feel protected. Safe. 

_Loved._

The word causes a jolt of something ‒ hot, blazing, impossible _something_ ‒ to shoot through him, and Arthur has to stand up, walking over to the window to let out the energy that’s buzzing all through him. 

He stares out at the streets of the citadel below him, watches the moonlight glitter on the stone, and feels complete and utter relief. 

Because Arthur feels the same, doesn’t he? He always has, even if he’s tried to deny it, both aloud and in his own head. He’d move heaven and hell to protect Merlin, to keep him from any sort of harm. He’s always known that Merlin was unflinchingly loyal, that he’d always be by Arthur’s side come what may, but to know that his feelings of protectiveness are reciprocated so _fully,_ so intensely ‒ it does something strange to him. Makes his chest clench and his stomach twist, makes his blood go hot. 

He wonders: is this normal? To feel so strongly about someone? To be willing to do anything ‒ and Arthur means _anything_ ‒ to keep someone safe? What he and Merlin feel for each other...gods, what does it even _mean?_

A part of him whispers ‒ _you know exactly what it means._

But Arthur can’t face that. Not fully. Not now. 

He goes to sit back down. Merlin is watching him, expression almost fearful. Arthur _hates_ that ‒ hates it when Merlin is frightened of him. Oh, there are moments of teasing and banter between them, moments when Arthur likes to rile him up and make him a little paranoid or wary. He especially likes those times when he gets right up in Merlin’s personal space after giving a vague, teasing threat of some sort, and Merlin gets all flustered, the tips of his ears turning red and his eyes darting here and there. 

But genuine fear? No. Arthur doesn’t want that. Especially now that he knows that Merlin must’ve been afraid of him all along, at least on some level, due to his secret. 

He wants to eliminate that fear, wants to destroy any wisps of terror that may linger in his mind. Arthur wants Merlin to know that he’s _safe_ with him, no matter what. A part of him wants to grip Merlin’s forearms, get in his face and tell him, “You could do anything, Merlin, _anything,_ and I’d care for you anyways,” because it’s completely, irrevocably, terrifyingly true. 

“I’m sorry,” Merlin says, suddenly, pulling Arthur from his thoughts. Arthur sighs deeply. 

“Whatever for? I swear, Merlin, if you keep apologizing…”

“ ‒ I shouldn’t have lost my way,” Merlin interrupts, and he looks so wrecked, so upset, that Arthur can’t bring himself to admonish him. “I should’ve kept to the path, should’ve done what destiny asked of me. I was just so...frightened. Of losing you.”

He looks up at Arthur, who can only hold the gaze a moment before he has to tear his eyes away from the vulnerability he sees there.

“It’s okay, Merlin,” he says. “I understand.”

Indeed he does. All too well.

* * *

Finally, deep into the darkest hours of the night, the story comes to an end. Merlin tells the full truth of what happened while Arthur was at Camlann, and then they’re sitting together in absolute quiet. The fire has died down yet again, but Arthur refrains from asking Merlin to stoke it. He doesn’t want to face that feeling again, the one that arises within him when Merlin calls his powers forth and his eyes flash gold. 

“I’m not sure what to say,” Arthur murmurs into the quiet, and it’s true. Both _thank you_ and _I’m sorry_ have already been uttered a thousand times, it seems, and are entirely inadequate anyways. And although Arthur has loved fiercely, although he has felt that sense of words not being enough ‒ when seeing his father’s eyes glow with approval as he was crowned Prince of Camelot, when clasping Guinevere’s hands the day he took her as his queen ‒ he has never felt it to such an extreme.

“It’s alright,” Merlin says. He looks up at Arthur, then, his eyes so kind and sweet in the low light, and _fuck,_ Arthur doesn’t deserve him, could live a thousand lifetimes and not deserve to be looked at like that. “You don’t have to say anything. It’s...a lot to take in.”

“That’s an understatement,” Arthur says, dryly but without much humor. Indeed, nothing about this situation ‒ this moment ‒ is even remotely funny. 

Gods, he wishes it was. He wishes they could just slip right back into their old routine, into the jokes and the banter. He wishes he could just leave it like this, simply _not say anything_ like Merlin is suggesting. They could go their separate ways for the night and let the truth simmer under the cover of the deep dark. 

This could be the end of the story, Arthur realizes. The truth is out, is laid bare for both of them to look at, to consider and muse over. They could go on as they had before ‒ Merlin by Arthur’s side. A steadfast presence. A treasured friend. The only difference would be the lack of secrets between them. 

But Arthur _can’t._ He looks at Merlin, who’s now turned his gaze to the fire, a soft smile alighting his lips, and knows that it’s impossible to simply go back to the way they were before. Too much has changed. 

Too much has been revealed. 

The words ring in Arthur’s head yet again: _Just, just...just hold me. Please._ He flushes from just the memory. 

As it happens, Merlin chooses this moment to look back to him. Seeing Arthur’s blush, he quirks an eyebrow, something unreadable flickering across his face. “You alright?”

Arthur shakes his head, running a hand through his hair. “I’m fine,” he says, but the words come out sounding hoarse. 

And then something strange happens. This feeling hits him all at once, and it’s like all the breath has been sucked right out of him, and he realizes that there is in fact something he could say. Words that could do justice to Merlin’s story, to the truth, and what it all means. 

Three of them, to be precise. 

Arthur’s feeling very warm, now. He realizes, with a good amount of embarrassment, that among the emotions assaulting him right now, one very prominent one is _fear.  
_

He’s realized what he has to do ‒ what he has to _say_ ‒ if he is to be truly honest with Merlin, and he’s fucking _terrified._

Somehow, he gets up the nerve to say, very quietly, “I was thinking.”

And gods, now would be a great time for Merlin to give his usual line ‒ _try not to hurt yourself, sire_ ‒ but his manservant is far too clever for his own good and somehow knows that what Arthur is about to say is important, so he simply asks, “About?”

He sounds curious, but not fearful. It occurs to Arthur that, for once, _Merlin_ is the oblivious one. He doesn’t know what Arthur is about to tell him, doesn’t realize that everything is about to change. 

Arthur clears his throat. He feels off-kilter and a bit fuzzy. His heart beats hard and loud in his ears, and he takes a deep breath to calm himself, but it’s really no use. No amount of mental preparation is going to make this any easier. 

“About when I was dying,” he says, and although he’s looking at the stone floor of his chambers, he notices Merlin sitting up slightly from the corner of his eye. 

“When I…” Arthur trails off, and gods, how is ever going to get the words out if he can’t even say _this?_ He takes another breath, shifting in his chair because he needs to move, needs some sort of conduit for the energy, however small. “When we were close to the lake. Before I passed out. When I asked you to…”

 _Hold me._ Arthur doesn’t say it, but something in him compels him to look up, to meet Merlin’s gaze. He sees the realization dawn and he knows now that Merlin is putting the pieces together. Arthur watches as Merlin’s eyes widen slightly, as his face _changes,_ paling a little with shock. 

And Arthur really doesn’t have time to analyze that; he has to keep talking or he’ll never be able to say it. He looks away again, to the fire, as Merlin says, “I remember.”

A simple response. Arthur recognizes it as an invitation to keep talking. He forges onwards. 

“I just...need you to know that when I said that, I ‒ I just ‒ I really _did_ want you to, I...I _meant_ it, I…” he trails off again, shaking his head, because he’s not making any sense. None of it is coming out right, but then, that might have to do with the fact that Arthur is _so fucking scared._

Arthur has looked death in the eye, more than once. He has faced the wrath of his father’s judgement, has fought creatures of unimaginable power. He has knelt for the ghosts of druids, allowing himself to be at their mercies, has watched Camelot burn and crumble under Morgana’s cruelty. He has allowed himself to be vulnerable, has been open about his feelings, his love, with Gwen. 

Yet none of that could ever compare to the fear he feels right now, in this very moment. Arthur feels hot and cold at the same time. His heart beats so fast and loud in his ears that it nearly drowns out the sound of the crackling fire. 

“Merlin, you are ‒ you’re _important_ to me,” Arthur says, still looking away. And damn, even that’s not right, because Merlin already knows that. “And when we were travelling to the lake together, I realized just how much, and I ‒” he breaks off, voice simply failing him. “ _Fuck,_ ” he whispers.

“It’s okay, Arthur,” Merlin says, and Arthur supposes the words are meant to comfort him ‒ to help him through whatever he’s trying to say ‒ but Merlin’s voice is too shaky, too quiet, and Arthur knows that Merlin is feeling just as conflicted, just as torn up and hopeful and terrified as him. 

“I was dying,” Arthur says, and his voice sounds scratchy and far off, “and you were there, and I wanted so badly to _tell_ you, but I didn’t know how. I didn’t know how, and gods, I don’t even think I really _knew._ Not until we got back here, and now I keep thinking about it, over and over again, I can’t stop _thinking_ about it. About what I said, about what you said. And you’re still here, still by my side, and I don’t know why because I don’t deserve it, Merlin.” He shakes his head, eyes still on the flames but not really seeing them. “And I keep _seeing_ you, and you’re just ‒ all I can _think about,_ and I just need you to know that I ‒” He breaks off abruptly, still unable to really say it, to get the words out. 

He looks up. 

And it’s the visage of Merlin sitting before him, expression written in shades of surprise and apprehension and _hope,_ that does him in, finally. 

It’s like that first night back in Camelot, then. It’s as though his body ‒ his very _soul_ ‒ is being assaulted with it. It crashes over him, again and again and again, and the words keep ringing in his mind, begging to be let out, but surely he _can’t?_

That’s the first time he’s ever phrased it like a question, he realizes. 

And this is the moment where Arthur Pendragon understands. Understands that he’s fucked, that it’s _over._ That it’s been over since Merlin brought him back from the brink by the Lake of Avalon. Perhaps before that, even. 

Was it when Merlin pressed his hand to Arthur’s cheek and whispered, “ _Get some sleep_?” Was it moments before, when Arthur, inhibitions weakened by his dying heart, let his eyes linger on Merlin’s lips and said, “ _I don’t want you to change. I want you to always...be you.”_

Was it even earlier? Perhaps when Arthur let all his fear, all his worry and concern, shine through in the caves, three years ago? _“I came back because you’re the only friend I have and I couldn’t bear to lose you._ ” Or, maybe, when Arthur came out of the throne room to see Merlin sitting there on the floor, exhausted and sad yet awake. Awake because of Arthur, because Merlin hadn’t wanted him to feel alone. 

It doesn’t really matter, Arthur supposes. All he knows is that he can’t keep it inside any longer. Not after years of denial, of pushing it _down, down, down,_ of pretending that what he feels for Merlin is anything less than earth-shattering. Visceral and existential and _desperate.  
_

There’s the sense of wetness on his cheeks, and Arthur realizes, with no small amount of humiliation, that he’s begun to cry. The tears are silent, traitorous, slithering down his face without warning, but they’re undeniably _there._ He reaches up to wipe them away, but it’s fucking useless, because they just keep coming and coming and suddenly Arthur is breathing even harder, his heartbeat hammering even faster, somehow, in his chest. He tells himself, over and over again, to pull it together, but he can’t. He _can’t.  
_

Distantly, in the back of his mind, Arthur notes that he hasn’t wept since his father passed away and wonders what Merlin must be thinking right now. 

The feeling is relentless in its pursuit of him. Ruthless. He just sits, puts a hand to his forehead, shaking his head as the tears fall. He breathes in a harsh, gasping breath, and is filled with shame at being so horribly weak. He’s a _king._ He can’t fall apart like this.

But the dam has broken, now. And there’s no stopping the flood. 

He looks up at Merlin, who gazes at him in open concern. He’s sitting up in his chair, as if he’s half ready to get up and walk over to Arthur, to comfort him. But Merlin knows him better than anyone on this earth, somehow knows that right now, in this moment, Arthur needs space. 

The words are wrenched up from somewhere deep, deep inside him. From places he’s never let himself acknowledge, let alone look into. It’s a broken admittance, one born of years of longing, of wanting without even realizing it, of desire buried beneath layers and layers of _it can never be.  
_

And it can’t. But he says it anyways. 

“I love you.” 

Arthur’s voice breaks as he says it, cracks on the word _love,_ and he sees Merlin’s eyes widen, sees the pure, unadulterated _shock_ that spreads across his face, before he has to look away. 

Terror washes over him. He trembles. He reaches up, wiping the tears from his cheeks, feeling completely raw. It’s as though he’s been cut right open, as if he’s ripped his heart from his chest and is holding it out to Merlin on his palm.

Because that is what he’s doing, isn’t it? Laying himself completely bare for the first time. Acknowledging something he’s known subconsciously for years, something he’s kept hidden under the insults and the mocking and the playful banter. 

And it’s so damn transparent, now, that all the _shut up, Merlin’s_ and _you really are an idiot, aren’t you, Merlin?’s_ were born of a desperation to keep all that longing locked away, deep where no one could see it. Not even himself. 

But now he’s seeing it ‒ _really_ seeing it ‒ and it’s blindingly obvious that when Arthur lay on the edge of the treeline, dying, and told Merlin _thank you,_ he was really saying _I love you._

Overwhelmed, Arthur lets out a shaky breath and puts his face in his hands, the tears only slowing due to the fear that’s beginning to overcome him once more. Fear of Merlin’s reaction, because damn it, he still hasn’t said anything. The room is completely silent, save for the fire and Arthur’s heavy breathing. 

He finally gathers enough courage to let his hands fall, to look up once more. To meet Merlin’s eyes. 

Merlin, who is staring at him with this look of sadness and wonder and ‒

_Love._

And although Arthur already knew, somewhere deep down, that Merlin felt the same way, that there was no other explanation for his manservant’s complete and utter devotion to him, looking it in the face is another thing entirely. Arthur sucks in a breath, shifting in his seat, feeling dizzy. 

He can’t tear his eyes away from Merlin’s, couldn’t even if he wanted to. It’s as if there’s a magnetic pull between them, urging him forwards, and before Arthur realizes what he’s doing, he’s standing up, and so is Merlin, and within a few seconds they’re a mere foot away from each other. 

“ _Arthur,"_ Merlin breathes. The way he says it ‒ laced with sheer reverence and _desire_ ‒ makes a full-body shiver run down Arthur’s spine. The firelight flickers on the planes of Merlin’s face, casting him in a golden glow, and Arthur can almost imagine the magic that runs through his veins thrumming beneath his skin, luminous and powerful and _alive._

Arthur stands there and looks and _oh gods,_ he _wants._

He lets his eyes drift to Merlin’s lips and linger there, hears Merlin’s sharp, quiet intake of breath. Merlin’s own eyes drop a fraction of an inch before locking back onto Arthur’s, and he’s hit with such a wave of longing that it nearly makes his knees go weak. 

He imagines shoving Merlin back against the stone wall of his chambers, imagines how Merlin might gasp at the force of it, at the pressure and intensity. 

He imagines dipping his head down, on pressing his lips to the pulse point on Merlin’s neck and feeling the fluttering of his heart. He wonders if it’s beating as hard and fast as Arthur’s, wonders what Merlin would do if he dragged his lips from his throat to the hollow of his collarbone and _bit._

Arthur is flushed and shaky and still thinking about the way Merlin breathed his name, and every part of him wants to reach out, to grab Merlin by the hips, or wrap a hand around the back of his neck, and pull him _closer._

And it’s crazy. It’s impossible. This is _Merlin._ His manservant. His best friend of ten years. His sorcerer, his hidden protector. 

And a man. 

Arthur is flooded with shame, with confusion, because men aren’t supposed to desire other men. Arthur isn’t meant to long for the feel of a man’s body pressed against his own; it simply isn’t _done._ There may not be any laws against it, but there are most certainly rules. Unspoken, maybe, but known by all. 

There was a man, once. When Arthur was eighteen. He’d just been made the head of the knights, was high on the excitement of leadership and honor, when a scandal occurred among his men. 

Sir Bran, a knight who’d been of an age with Arthur, was discovered coupling with a stable boy by another knight ‒ Sir Kay, to be exact. Kay had promptly gone to Arthur, where he’d been sitting in his chamber by the fire, enjoying a brief moment of relaxation after a particularly vicious day of training. 

Arthur recalls the look of disgust on Kay’s face as he’d relayed the news, the way he’d said the words with a lip curled in distaste. 

As for himself? Arthur had been less disgusted and more...confused. As if it had simply never _occurred_ to him, the idea that men might want to lie with other men. He’d merely sat there for a moment, nursing his cup of wine, taking in the news and trying to wrap his head around it. And when he’d realized that Kay was waiting for some sort of order ‒ _What do you plan to do, sire?_ he’d asked ‒ Arthur, hit with this strange feeling, as if he’d missed the last step of a staircase, had risen from his chair and said, “I’ll speak to my father about this. Thank you, Sir Kay.”

Back then, it had been Arthur’s most natural instinct to seek his father’s counsel in moments of uncertainty. Yet when it came to this particular incident, it seemed that Uther was perplexed as to why Arthur had come to ask for advice. 

Eyebrows narrowed, the king had simply told him, “It’s really quite simple, Arthur. Come up with a decent excuse to get rid of him.”

Arthur’s eyes had widened, a wave of shock jolting through him, as the first thought that came to mind was ‒ _what does he mean by_ get rid of him? Surely he wasn’t saying…

Uther must’ve been following Arthur’s train of thought, as he’d rolled with eyes and said, “Gods, Arthur, I don’t mean _kill him._ Just revoke his knighthood and send him away. I trust you can come up with a believable justification.” He’d made a face, then ‒ a combination of both disgust and pity. “It’s a bit of a shame, admittedly. Sir Bran is a talented swordsman, and an otherwise honorable man. But someone with such preferences cannot be allowed a knighthood, of course.” 

_Of course._ Said so casually, as if Arthur ought to know already. But he hadn’t, and now, as he stood there listening to Uther, he was flooded with a strange, unfamiliar feeling. His body had gone hot, his muscles going tense. He’d thanked his father for the counsel and exited the king’s chambers in a hurry. 

On his way to Sir Bran’s rooms, it occurred to him that the feeling felt dangerously close to _shame._

But that didn’t make sense. Arthur had nothing to be ashamed of. This situation, Lord Bran’s _preferences,_ as Uther had put it, had nothing to do with him. 

So why did he feel so off-kilter? So unbalanced? 

Unsettled, Arthur had shoved the feeling down ‒ _down, down, down_ ‒ and went to do his duty. He never saw Sir Bran again. 

Now, standing before Merlin, close enough to reach out and touch ‒ and _gods,_ does Arthur want to touch ‒ he is flushed with that same feeling from years ago. And only now does he understand why he’d been so conflicted and off-put by the incident with Sir Bran. 

Because Arthur has wanted in the same way as his former knight. He’d always waved it off as admiration of strength and talent, of prowess, but he’s nevertheless held a certain appreciation for other men since he was young. He’d felt it when he’d faced down Lancelot for the first time, and when he’d met Percival and even Gwaine. He recalls the way his eyes would sometimes linger on them during training, admiring, recalls the way he always assumed it was completely normal, that other men must do the same. He’d never recognized it as anything more than an intense sort of appreciation, had never considered it could ever be _attraction._

But it was. It _is._ Arthur is sure of that, because as Merlin stands before him now, eyes burning with the same want that’s coiling in Arthur’s gut, he wants nothing more than to know him in every way one can know a person. He wants to _feel_ it, feel the heat, the pressure and intensity of skin against skin, wants to map every inch of Merlin’s body with his burning palms. He wants to know how he would sound, how he would look if Arthur were to him make him ‒ 

Arthur breaks off that line of thought immediately, because that’s too much, too dangerous. Because if Arthur starts thinking about that ‒ imagining that ‒ he’ll never be able to go back. 

“ _Merlin,_ ” Arthur says, and is too caught up in the tension to care about how sheer desire is turning his words into broken things. He reaches out a hand, and Merlin steps closer, eyes fixed on Arthur’s lips, and then ‒

Arthur steps back, letting his hand fall. 

Merlin freezes. 

The moment stretches out into what feels like eternity. They simply stare at each other, both aching to be closer but unable to move towards what they want. 

Merlin looks at him, broken, and says what they’re both thinking. 

“ _We can’t._ "

And there it is. Two words that have defined their relationship for years, probably, even if Arthur was unaware of it. 

But then ‒ was he, really? Unaware? In that instant, Arthur knows that it isn’t true. He’s _always_ known, on some level. He simply never let himself look at it. Never let himself even _think_ about it. 

But he knew. Deep down, somewhere hidden very far within him, he _knew.  
_

And he also knows why he chose to keep it there, why he has spent years pretending and ignoring and covering up his feelings with insults and jokes and banter. 

_We can’t,_ Merlin had said. The thought that Arthur had just before his confession ‒ gods, Arthur still can’t believe he _said_ it ‒ comes back to him. 

_It can never be._

And Arthur’s heart just cracks, right down the middle, because he knows it’s true. He’d give anything for it not to be, but then ‒ Arthur’s never had a particularly easy time when it comes to love, has he? 

He thinks of Gwen, then ‒ of the obstacles of their courtship, of the forbidden nature of their love ‒ and almost has to laugh, because _wow,_ Arthur really is quite talented at making his life more difficult than it needs to be.

Falling in love with a servant is one thing. Falling in love with a _male_ servant is another thing entirely. 

The former could be accepted ‒ _was_ accepted ‒ by the people of Camelot. In fact, Arthur thinks that over the past three years, the citizens of his kingdom have grown to appreciate that their queen was once a commoner, that Arthur doesn’t see rank in the same way that other nobles do. 

The latter, on the other hand? It’s unthinkable. Men don’t court other men, and women don’t court other women. It just _doesn’t happen._ Hell, it’s probably barely done in secret, much less out in the open, for fear of judgement and retribution from those who are particularly close-minded. And that isn’t even considering the fact that Arthur is the King of Camelot and needs an heir if the Pendragon dynasty is to continue. 

And, above all, the fact that Arthur is _married._

Images of Guinevere ‒ of his beautiful, compassionate, _incredible_ wife ‒ flood his mind, and Arthur is hit with a wave of intense guilt. He moves further back, away from Merlin, shaking his head. 

“Gwen,” he chokes out, and Merlin must understand, because he nods. 

“I know,” he says, sounding just as hoarse. Just as broken and lost. “I know, Arthur. It’s alright. It’s fine, it’s…” he trails off, looking away. Arthur sees him swallow and his eyes fix on the long line of Merlin’s throat, hidden beneath his neckerchief. Arthur is struck with the urge to march over to him, pull it away and press his lips, his _teeth_ to the pale skin there, and ‒ 

_Guinevere._ Arthur sucks in a breath. 

_We can’t.  
_

“I have to go,” Arthur says, even though it’s his chambers, not Merlin’s, and it’s only a couple hours until dawn. Merlin is still looking away from him, breathing hard, and Arthur sees him nod before he turns on his heel and walks over to the door, heart still hammering in his chest. 

He opens the door, walks out, and closes it. He makes it to the other end of the hall, to a window tucked into a nearby alcove, and presses his palms up against the glass. He takes deep, long breaths. Closes his eyes. 

Finally, he pulls away. Legs still feeling strangely numb, he makes his way to the training yard, still in his nightclothes, and bashes at a dummy with his sword until dawn casts its first tendrils of light over the grass. 

He focuses on the sweat and the ache of his muscles, on the grip of Excalibur’s hilt in his palm, and thinks of nothing and everything all at once.

* * *

_This will be my last confession_

_“I love you” never felt like any blessing_

_Whispering like it’s a secret_

_Only to condemn the one who hears it_

* * *

A week passes. 

Naturally, neither Arthur nor Merlin mention the incident. To say that things are tense between them would be an understatement, and the two men take to avoiding each other at all costs. 

Merlin brings Arthur’s breakfast early in the mornings, before Arthur’s awake. He dresses on his own. Merlin stays away from the training field and is even missing from the round table meetings. There are multiple times where Arthur looks to his right, expecting Merlin to be there, before remembering. It’s like a slap across the face each time, made even worse when he turns back and sees Gwen sitting at his left. 

It replays over and over in his head, a tortuous, perpetual loop. He finds himself drifting off in the midst of important discussions about policy, thinking of the way Merlin had breathed his name. He’ll be having dinner with Gwen in their shared chambers, listening to his queen chat about her ventures into the lower town, and suddenly find himself recalling the way Merlin had looked at him after Arthur’s confession, the pure, unadulterated _love_ written into the lines of his face. 

Each and every time, Arthur finds himself feeling hot all over, has to drag his thoughts to something else before he gets noticeably worked up. And each and every time, he thinks to himself: _is this how it will always be?  
_

The time he spends with Merlin is even worse, somehow. For years, Merlin has been the one person Arthur has felt completely relaxed around, the person with whom he is utterly comfortable. His kingly airs, the stress and pressure of his duties ‒ when he’s around Merlin, he’s always been able to let it all fall away. And although he is much the same with Guinevere, there are certain things ‒ certain worries and troubles ‒ that he’s never been able to share with her. Not out of lack of love or trust, but out of fear that she’d find him lacking. That she would be disappointed. 

Because Guinevere knows him well. Very well. He trusts her with his life, with his kingdom. But there’s only one person who Arthur trusts _completely,_ with every piece of his soul, even after everything. Even after the magic. 

Yet being around Merlin has ceased to be comforting. Now, the two flit around each other awkwardly, avoiding eye contact and conversation and touch. 

There are a few times when they slip up. Merlin’s hand will accidentally touch his while he’s serving Arthur wine, or their sleeves may brush when Merlin moves past him, out of Arthur’s chambers. Each time it happens, Arthur feels as though his entire body is being lit up, and the heat that passes swiftly through him leaves him flushed, heart beating fast.

He knows Merlin feels it, too ‒ can tell by the almost startled look that arises on his face before he quickly crushes it, turning it into something more neutral. 

Worst of all, however, is when they catch eyes. There’s something about the way Merlin looks at him ‒ the intensity he finds in the dark blue of Merlin’s eyes ‒ that makes Arthur feel as though he’s suffocating. He’ll be relaxing in his chambers, sitting by the fire, and Merlin will come in to tidy up before heading back to his own room. And Arthur will look up, despite himself, and the two will meet eyes and it’s like that evening all over again. 

Arthur’s breath catches and his heart damn near stops, and it happens every _fucking_ time. It might be bearable if the tension lessened with each stolen glance, but gods, it somehow gets _worse._ Arthur looks at Merlin, and Merlin looks at him, and all Arthur can think is _I love you_ and _I want to touch you_ and it’s made all the worse by the fact that Merlin is clearly thinking the same thing. 

And sometimes Arthur curses himself, wishes that he’d never said anything. He lets himself imagine what things would be like if he’d kept this final secret to himself. 

Merlin would still be where he’s supposed to be ‒ glued to Arthur’s side at all times. He’d joke and laugh and give Arthur that wonderful, ridiculous grin, and Arthur would return it with a smile of his own and they’d be _good._ They would be happy. 

But it would be a lie. And after ten years of such a heavy secret between them, Arthur is done with lies. 

Arthur thinks about how it’s said that _the truth sets you free,_ and how he’s found that this truth has instead created a prison.

* * *

Arthur loves Guinevere. He loves her very, very much, to the point of sometimes being knocked flat by it. There are times when his queen will be laying on their bed, hair loose around her, smile soft and sweet, and Arthur gets an intense warmth in his chest and feels as though he’s the luckiest man in Camelot. 

And Gwen _knows him,_ knows when he’s upset or conflicted, when he’s angry or annoyed. So it’s no surprise at all that by the end of the second week since the incident with Merlin, she asks him to join her in her personal chambers for a talk. 

It’s evening, and Arthur is tired. Tired from meetings and still-healing wounds, and tired from constant thoughts of Merlin and Merlin’s eyes and his lips and, above all, the way he says Arthur’s _name,_ and ‒ 

“Arthur?”

He looks up, startled, and flushes deeply when he sees Gwen, sitting next to him at her table, giving him a concerned look. 

“Yes?” Arthur says, and almost winces because his voice still sounds so far-away, so detached from the present moment. “Sorry. I was…” he trails off. It’s not like he can tell her the truth. 

The irony of that is like a sudden punch to the gut. When it comes to lying to the people they care about, it seems that he and Merlin have traded places. Waves of guilt wash over him, and he has to remind himself that this is why he and Merlin made their decision. 

If a confession is enough to make Arthur feel like this ‒ as though he’s burning alive with shame ‒ he can hardly imagine how he would feel if he and Merlin were to ‒

_Push it down, down, down._

Gwen is still looking at him with open concern, her brown eyes soft. “Are you alright, Arthur? These past few weeks, you’ve been acting...odd. I’m worried about you.”

Arthur’s blood turns cold, and he fights to keep his expression neutral. Surely she doesn’t know? Mind whirling, he thinks back to the moments he’s shared with his wife recently, the conversations and walks and meals, trying to figure out if he’s done something to give it all away. 

He pushes down the panic, though, because Gwen’s sitting right there and he can’t give her even a hint, not anything, or it’ll all be over. Instead, he gives her his best smile and says, “I’m quite alright, Gwen. Just stressed, I suppose. I’m still a bit tired, too, I think. From the wound.”

That’s only half true; he _is_ still feeling a bit under the weather due to his injury, but not so much that it’s debilitating. Gwen’s expression goes tight with worry ‒ although Arthur notes something else, too. Not quite like suspicion, but close. As if she knows that Arthur isn’t telling the whole truth. 

How could she _not_ tell? They’ve been married for three years, in love for even longer. Gwen has always been good at picking out his lies, and the increased desperation behind telling those lies isn’t going to change that. It may, in fact, make Arthur’s falsehoods all the more obvious. The thought makes his body tighten with nervousness. 

Nonetheless, Gwen reaches out to place a comforting hand on his. “I didn’t know it was still bothering you. Have you talked to Gaius?”

Arthur nods before he even realizes he’s doing it, and a second later it occurs to him that that’s _another_ lie. He hasn’t spoken to Gaius in days, has been avoiding his chambers, in fact, out of fear that Merlin might be hanging around. 

That thought brings shame in and of itself. It seems that admitting his feelings has turned Arthur into a coward. 

Gwen squeezes his hand. “Good,” she says. “I’m sure you’ll be feeling better soon.” She pauses, biting her lip. It’s clear that there’s more she wants to say, and Arthur sighs, smiling fondly despite the tension of the moment. Even now, years later, his wife is still sometimes reluctant to speak completely freely around him. Arthur might be hurt if he didn’t know that it was more the result of many years of habit than a lack of trust. 

“What is it, Gwen?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. “You can tell me anything. You know that.”

Even as he says it, though, a part of him fears her words. Fears that somehow, she _knows.  
_

“I just…” she sighs deeply, running a thumb over Arthur’s palm before meeting his eyes. “I noticed that you and Merlin seem to be avoiding each other. Did something happen between you two?”

All it takes is the mention of Merlin’s name and Arthur’s entire body goes tight with immediate tension. His heartbeat quickens, and it takes every ounce of Arthur’s control over his emotions to keep his expression calm. 

“Arthur?” Gwen questions, and he realizes that he’s yet to answer her. His face goes hot; he prays that it doesn’t flush, that it doesn’t give him away. 

“No,” he answers, and inwardly curses himself when the word comes out sounding short and bitten-off. “No, of course not. We’re fine. We’ve just been busy.”

A shadow crosses Gwen’s face, and he knows that _she_ knows he’s lying. The shame hits him full force once more. 

He wonders: _is this how Merlin felt?_

Every time Arthur mentioned magic, each time he proclaimed sorcery to be pure evil. And _gods,_ what about the time he’d been accused of magic by the Witchfinder? How had he felt, standing in front of the court, his secret laid bare for all to hear? He’d denied it, of course, and it had all turned out fine, but surely he must’ve been terrified? 

Arthur thinks, rather bitterly, that he’s beginning to understand Merlin’s fear better than he’d ever thought he would. 

“Are you sure?” Gwen asks. “I wondered if, perhaps...well, I wondered if Merlin’s magic is still bothering you? That he kept it secret, I mean?”

For a moment, Arthur can only stare at her, so intense is his relief. _That’s_ what Gwen thinks is wrong? Arthur feels as though a stone has been lifted from his chest, feels the tension drain from his body. 

Of course, she’s not entirely wrong. Arthur _is_ still a bit upset about the magic, and it’s not as though Merlin’s deception isn’t important context for the real issue. Arthur imagines it will take him a while before he’s completely worked through that. But that’s nothing ‒ absolutely _nothing_ ‒ compared to what’s actually been haunting his thoughts these past few weeks.

Arthur smiles, and this time, it’s real. “Guinevere, I solemnly promise you: I am not angry at Merlin for keeping his magic secret.” He pauses. “Well, maybe a little. But not nearly as much as I was. We’ve talked about it a lot, and we’ll get through it.” 

He squeezes her hand, watching as relief washes over Gwen’s face, a lovely smile alighting her lips. Arthur grins, murmurs, “That’s better,” and leans over to kiss her gently. 

When he pulls back, however, Gwen’s easy expression shifts into something a bit more strained. Arthur frowns. 

“You’re still upset.”

Gwen sighs. “I’m glad that you’re not cross with Merlin for keeping his magic secret. But, Arthur ‒ I’m not blind. There _is_ something going on with you two. Merlin hasn’t been to any of the round table meetings in nearly two weeks, nor has he been on the training fields.”

When Arthur opens his mouth ‒ to what, protest? How could he, when she’s right about all of this? ‒ Gwen says quickly, “I’m not angry, Arthur, I’m just worried. I know you and Merlin are close and I’m so very glad for it.” She smiles at him, so lovingly, and the pangs of guilt are back, alongside the fear. “Merlin has always been good for you, and you for him, even if you’re loath to admit it.” The look she gives him then is almost admonishing, and if Arthur weren’t so completely paralyzed with anxiety, he might’ve blushed in response to the gentle reproach. 

“I just hate to see either you or Merlin upset,” she finishes. “And you _are_ upset, Arthur. Don’t try to deny it.” She raises a brow, lip curling in a gentle smile. “I know you far too well.”

It’s true, however much Arthur wishes it weren’t in this moment. And Gwen is still looking at him expectantly, waiting for him to answer, and the panic is back as Arthur racks his mind for some sort of excuse. 

To his horror, he finds none. Gwen sits there and waits, and the longer she waits the more worried she becomes, her wry smile turning to a concerned frown. Arthur thinks and thinks, trying to come up with something believable, but gods, she’s too good at this, at knowing when he’s lying. No matter what he says, she’ll know it’s not true. 

And now he’s thinking about the _actual_ truth, damn it, his mind flashing back to that evening two weeks ago for what must be the hundredth time that day, and he’s sure that he’s flushing now, sure that she must _know_ ‒

“Arthur?” Gwen asks. He looks over to her, trying desperately to calm his racing heart, trying his best to appear calm. 

She looks almost nervous, now, her eyebrows pulled together, mouth slightly open. “What is it? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.” She gives him a smile, but it’s a bit uncertain. “Whatever it is, I’m sure it’s nothing you two can’t work out. You always do.”

Arthur opens his mouth to say something ‒ but, of course, nothing comes out. Because Arthur has no idea what to say. How to lie to his wife. 

Arthur has never been a liar. Has never really _needed_ to be. 

It’s in this moment that the door to Gwen’s chambers opens, the sudden sound making Arthur jump in his seat. 

“Gwen? I was hoping to talk to you about ‒ ”

It’s Merlin ‒ of _course_ it is, Arthur thinks, because his luck is clearly being tried today ‒ standing in the doorway. His mouth opens in surprise and his eyes flick briefly to Gwen before settling on Arthur. 

And it’s just like every time before, only _worse,_ because now Guinevere is a witness. Merlin immediately tenses, and a part of Arthur wants to shout at him, wants to say _damn you, Merlin, surely you’ve gotten good at this over the years?_

But Arthur is no better, of course. And this is an entirely different sort of secret, with entirely different consequences. 

Arthur looks at Merlin and his words from that night hit him again, no weaker despite the time that has passed. 

_“I love you.”_

and ‒

_“Gwen.”_

Arthur feels sick to his stomach, but somehow wrenches up a smile, because Gwen can’t know, she _can’t._ He looks at Merlin and prays that he can read that in Arthur’s eyes. 

“Merlin!” Arthur proclaims, just as he has a thousand times before. “To what do we owe the displeasure?” 

There’s a moment where Arthur is afraid that Merlin can’t do it, that he can’t pull it off, where he looks at Arthur with that same intensity, that same tension. 

And then, a moment later, Merlin smiles, and Arthur is struck dumb because _wow,_ it looks almost the same as it always has. 

“Sorry to disappoint, sire,” he says, “but I was actually hoping to speak to Gwen, if it’s not a bother?”

It takes a moment for Arthur to respond ‒ he’s still shocked by how _wrong_ his thought from earlier was, because apparently Merlin can lie, and fucking _well_ ‒ but then he’s nodding and saying, “Of course,” and getting up from the table, relief coursing through him at the escape that Merlin’s just given him. 

He gives Gwen a final smile, puts everything he has into making it look convincing. “I’ll see you later, Guinevere,” he says. 

Gwen’s returning smile is still a bit tight, and Arthur tries not to think about what that means as he all but flees her chambers, walking briskly out the door.

* * *

For the first time in a long while, Arthur finds himself at the tavern. 

He probably shouldn’t be surprised that his troubles have led him here. Although he’s made a point to avoid drinking in public ever since he was old enough to get a taste for alcohol ‒ and especially since he became king ‒ there are times when _damn it,_ he just needs to get away, to find some sense of comfort. And since neither of the two people he usually turns to are an option, it seems he’ll be searching for it at the bottom of a cup. 

Arthur’s not stupid enough to let himself get drunk, of course. Rather, he finds himself a table, tucked into the back corner of the establishment, and nurses a single ale as the night falls dark and heavy that evening. 

He looks at the window, watching as the gentle patter of rain begins. He lets himself drown in the sound of it, in the look of the water as it gathers on the cobblestone streets, the puddles glinting in the brightening moonlight. 

It’s nice. Soothing, even. 

Naturally, this is the exact moment that Merlin walks in. 

He doesn’t have to say anything; he doesn’t need to. Arthur is looking out the window when he gets this feeling ‒ this prickling on the back of his neck ‒ and then he’s turning his head to the door, instinctively, and there’s Merlin, showing up unexpectedly for the second time that day. 

Arthur watches as he peels off his brown jacket, that ratty thing he’s been wearing since the day he walked up to Arthur ten years ago, hand held out, a friendly smile on his lips, and said, “ _I’m Merlin._ ”

Now, as Arthur sits here across the room, watching as Merlin sweeps a hand across his forehead to wipe away water droplets and walks up the counter to order a drink, he finds himself wishing, rather bitterly, that Merlin had just kept to himself that day. That he’d let Arthur be, that he’d never challenged him to a duel in the middle of the lower town, so overconfident and stupid and cheeky, that he’d never waltzed into Arthur’s life with that smile and those adoring eyes and made himself a nice little home right in the middle of Arthur’s heart. 

Because now it’s too late, and Merlin is too much a part of him, and Arthur knows that if he were to ever leave, he’d take half of Arthur’s very being ‒ his very _soul_ ‒ with him. 

_We can’t keep going like this,_ Arthur thinks to himself, eyes still glued to his manservant as he takes a seat across the way. His table is on the other side of the tavern, facing the door, and he hasn’t noticed Arthur’s presence. 

If they do, it’ll tear them apart. Arthur knows it, knows it in his very bones. Merlin takes a sip of his ale, and Arthur feels heat curl in his gut as he watches Merlin’s lips press to the rim of his cup. 

They have to talk about it. And they have to do it _now,_ or they might never talk about it at all. And Arthur can’t bear that, can’t imagine living the rest of his life like this, both of them avoiding each other, so gutted by an impossible longing that it rips their bond to pieces. 

Arthur _needs_ him. Even if he can’t have Merlin in the way he wants, he still needs him by his side. He realizes, with a not insignificant amount of embarrassment, of shame, that when it comes to Merlin, he’ll take whatever he can get. 

Gripping his cup of ale in one hand, Arthur rises from his table and walks over to Merlin’s, heart beating faster and faster as he gets closer. 

Merlin’s head must be somewhere else tonight, as he doesn’t notice Arthur’s approach until the very last moment. He’s tracing the rim of his cup with one finger, lips in a firm line, expression unreadable. It’s only when Arthur is standing right before him, hands shaking a little, that he looks up. 

His eyes widen in momentary surprise, but a moment later, something else ‒ something a lot like acceptance, as if Merlin has, on some level, been anticipating this moment ‒ slides into place. “Arthur,” he says. Smiles softly. 

Arthur doesn’t ask ‒ just takes the opposite seat, doing his best to ignore the way his palms are sweating and his throat is turning dry. And it’s so stupid, he thinks, that he’s still feeling this way, two weeks after that evening. 

But there’s just something in the way Merlin _looks_ at him, even now, that makes Arthur want to hide. That makes him want to do the _opposite_ of hide, whatever that may be. 

Merlin takes another sip of his ale, leaning back in his chair and fixing Arthur with an expression that is equal parts nervous and resigned. As if he already knows where this conversation is going to go. 

“We can’t keep this up, Arthur,” Merlin says, voice low. “Gwen’s noticed that something’s off, and no offense, but you’re pretty shit at lying.”

Arthur can’t help it; a white-hot feeling of bitterness rushes through him, momentarily blinding all the other emotions that Arthur’s been struggling with over the past few weeks. “Unlike you,” he bites out, accusatory. He gives Merlin a cold smile. “No wonder you managed to keep your secret for ten years. I thought that perhaps I was just blind, but _no_ ‒ you’re just an excellent liar.” He gives a humorless laugh and lifts his cup to his lips. Takes a big gulp. “It’s almost impressive.”

Merlin is silent, and when Arthur looks up, the hurt on his face is unmistakable. Arthur feels an immediate pang of guilt, followed by frustration, because surely some bitterness is justified? Surely he’s allowed to be at least a bit angry? “Stop looking at me like that,” Arthur says, low and angry and a little bit cruel. 

“Like what?” Merlin asks, and there’s anger in _his_ voice, too, and that just pisses Arthur off even more. 

“Like I’m the one who’s being unfair,” he snaps. 

Merlin’s voice is ice when he says, “I thought you understood why I lied.”

It takes all of Arthur’s willpower not to slam a fist onto the table. Instead, he opts for curling his fingers around it, digging his nails into the wood. “I _understand,_ Merlin,” he bites out. “That doesn’t mean I’m not allowed to feel…”

Feel what? Hurt? Betrayed? Angry? He feels them all, and all at once. But beneath all of that, simmering steadily, powerfully, is something stronger. Something that compels him to meet Merlin’s eyes once more, that curls itself around the invisible thread that connects them, that stretches taught when their gazes catch. 

Merlin sighs, reaching up with a hand to rub between his eyes. “I know,” he murmurs. “I’m so‒ ”

“Stop,” Arthur says. “I told you: no more apologies. We’re done with that, okay? It’s just going to take some time to get used to. I’m still going over it all, in my head. Everything you told me. Everything I ‒”

Arthur breaks off, eyes leaving Merlin to rest on a spot over his shoulder. 

_Everything I told you._

It’s too much, Arthur thinks. Merlin’s magic. Merlin’s lies. Merlin’s devotion and loyalty and his _love._

 _Your love,_ whispers a voice in the back of his head. 

Merlin’s secrets were enough to handle on their own, and now Arthur’s gone and fucked it all up, has somehow made it _worse._

It occurs to Arthur that what he said to Guinevere earlier that day may have been his only believable lie, due to the fact that Arthur hadn’t even known it to be one ‒ that is, that he’s no longer upset with Merlin about his magic. Because it’s clear now that he _is._

It’s also clear that it nonetheless pales in comparison to the other reason they’re both sitting here, having this conversation. Even now, Arthur feels the anger draining away, replaced by something hot, something burning, as Merlin meets his eyes once more. 

His manservant reaches up, runs a hand through his dark hair before resting his elbows on the table, threading his fingers together, gaze on Arthur the whole time. He lets out a shaky exhale, and Arthur’s own breath catches at the sound. 

_“Arthur,”_ he remembers, and grips his fingers even tighter around the table, and suddenly all he can think about is the way Merlin looked at him that night, the way his eyes darkened as Arthur moved closer to him. 

His eyes dip to Merlin’s neck. For once, his manservant has gone out without a neckerchief, perhaps dressing in a more relaxed fashion due to his destination. He remembers his thoughts from that night, his fantasies of dipping his head down, of pressing his lips to the pale skin of Merlin’s throat, and flushes hard. 

The alcohol buzzing through his system certainly isn’t helping, and _fuck,_ why did Arthur think this was a good idea? 

Right. They’re meant to be having a conversation about why this is _a terrible idea._ About how they can get back to normal. 

But as Arthur sits here, eyes catching on the two spots of red that have arisen high on Merlin’s cheekbones ‒ from the ale or something else, Arthur isn’t sure ‒ he thinks that maybe there is no getting back to normal. 

The thought makes panic bubble up inside him, because he cannot lose Merlin. He can’t let this ruin them, or Arthur will never, ever forgive himself. 

“I can’t lie to Gwen,” he finally says. He uncurls his hand from around the table, brings it to his forehead. Runs it through his hair. “She’ll know. She always knows.”

Merlin’s mouth quirks up at that, just slightly. “That’s Gwen for you,” he says fondly. “She’s smarter than the both of us combined, I’d say.”

“Not that that’s horribly difficult,” Arthur mutters, not really able to care that he’s just insulted himself along with Merlin when his manservant gives a soft laugh. It’s the first time he’s heard it in weeks, and the sound only deepens Arthur’s longing, bringing about a sort of bittersweet hurt. 

“True,” Merlin says, taking another drink. He turns his head, then, to look out the window. Arthur is struck by the sheer beauty of his profile, of the angles of his cheekbones and the dark fan of his lashes. 

Merlin has always been beautiful, in a striking, fey sort of way. Arthur thinks he’s probably known that since the moment he first lay eyes on him outside the citadel, thinks he probably shoved it down, along with a thousand other difficult, impossible feelings. 

He doesn’t say it, of course ‒ Arthur is now highly aware of the consequences of speaking such things aloud ‒ but he’s sure that it’s written all over his face, because when Merlin looks back to him, his blue eyes turn soft and sweet, and the loveliest of smiles alights his lips. 

Arthur _aches._ It’s like this intense pressure in his chest, like a drawn out pain that’s ever-present, always lurking, poised and ready to strike at all times. 

And then, out of nowhere ‒ so simply, so _casually_ ‒ Merlin looks him in the eye and says, “I love you, too.”

Arthur freezes, his whole body going tense. And even though he already knew that, even though it was evident in the way Merlin reacted to his own confession, in the things he told Arthur while explaining the whole truth of the past decade, the words still make him feel dizzy. His breath comes faster and he just sits there and stares, unable to really process it. 

The smile Merlin gives him is so very sad. “Just wanted to make sure you knew,” he says, and there’s something so delicate about the way he says it. 

And Arthur wonders if that’s true. If Merlin only wanted to make sure ‒ or if, perhaps, he felt compelled to say it, just as Arthur had been. As if the words were a living, breathing creature inside him, begging to be let out after years and years of being trapped. 

“I knew,” Arthur says. The words sound almost foreign to his ears, as if he’s saying them without actually hearing them. He adds, quietly, “I think I always knew, maybe.” 

Merlin nods, eyes fixed on his cup. After a moment, he responds, “I didn’t know. About ‒” He clears his throat, and Arthur watches a blush rise on his cheeks. “About how you felt. I mean, I always _hoped,_ but I never really imagined ‒”

He breaks off, shaking his head, and now he’s _really_ turning red. And damn it, Arthur can’t help it; he smiles fondly, unable to keep the affection out of his voice when he mutters, “You really _are_ an idiot, Merlin.”

It’s the closest thing they’ve had to a normal _MerlinandArthur_ exchange in weeks. Even before that fateful evening, in the short period where Arthur was up and about after recuperating from his injury, they’d acted differently around each other. 

Not necessarily _awkwardly._ Things had just been...tense. And now that same tension has been ramped up to an extreme, so Arthur lets himself enjoy this brief moment of reprieve, where they share fond insults and warm looks and it doesn’t need to mean anything more. 

But it does, of course, and Merlin’s gaze melts into something so loving that Arthur feels his heart seize up. 

“We need to figure out how to make this work,” Arthur says. Normally, he’d be averse to having this conversation in public ‒ in a tavern, of all places ‒ but it’s so busy and loud in here, and Arthur and Merlin are tucked far enough away that there’s virtually no risk of being overheard. 

And, if Arthur is being completely honest with himself, the idea of having this talk in Arthur’s chambers ‒ the same spot where they’d been that evening ‒ is far more dangerous. Because there’s a bolt on Arthur’s door, and a bed in the corner of the room, and Arthur is smart enough not to tempt himself like that. 

He tells himself, over and over again, that he’d never do it, that he wouldn’t betray Gwen like that. He _wouldn’t._

But then he looks over to Merlin, sees those fucking _eyes,_ and knows that he can’t risk it. Because he’s a king, and an honorable man, but he’s also human. And so ‒ despite all his powerful magic ‒ is Merlin. 

Merlin nods. “I know,” he says. “It’s just…” he trails off, giving Arthur that damn _look_ again, and Arthur lets out an almost frustrated sigh. 

“Stop that,” he snaps, and squeezes his eyes shut, rubbing his brow. 

He hears, rather than sees, Merlin’s quirked eyebrow. “Stop what?”

“You know what. That... _thing_ you do.” He opens his eyes, feels heat arise on his cheeks. “With your eyes.”

Now it’s Merlin’s turn to blush, and Arthur wonders if he even realized he was doing it. “Sorry,” he mutters. 

And it’s so pathetic, so very sad, that Arthur finds himself wanting to laugh at the sheer stupidity of it all. At the sheer hopelessness of this situation. Gods, all Merlin has to do is _look_ at him and Arthur just ‒ 

He shakes his head, sighing very deeply. How the _hell_ did he keep this all locked up so tight? How did he manage to deny it all these years? Because now that’s finally letting himself look at it, letting himself _feel,_ it’s impossible to stop thinking about it. 

“What did I say about apologies?” Arthur asks, though it’s not really a question. “It’s not your fault, Merlin. It’s mine. If anyone should be sorry, it’s me.” He lifts his cup, takes a long drink of ale, and then frowns when he realizes he’s getting close to the bottom. “I’m the one who brought it up.”

 _It._ As if it’s just some simple, casual _thing,_ and not the most powerful fucking feeling Arthur has ever known. 

“It’s not your fault either, Arthur,” Merlin says. “It’s not anyone’s _fault._ It just...is what it is, I suppose. People shouldn’t have to apologize for the way they feel.”

Arthur shrugs. “Most people aren’t the King of Camelot.” The King of Camelot who is married, in fact. And a man. 

Gods. Arthur still isn’t sure how to work through that, isn’t sure he ever really _will._

Except Merlin, is, apparently, because the next thing out of his mouth is, “I didn’t even know that you felt that way about…” he trails off, somehow blushing even _deeper._ “You know. Men.”

The last word is very quiet, and Merlin casts his eyes around the tavern, as if making sure no one has heard. But the place is just as rowdy and crowded as ever, and no one seems to be even looking their way. They used to, back in the day, when Arthur first started coming here with his knights. But they’ve since grown used to it, to an extent, and outside of a few formal greetings and bows, as well as a few handshakes and polite smiles, Arthur ‒ and whatever companions he brings along ‒ is usually left alone. 

Arthur shifts in his seat, uncomfortable with the turn that their conversation has taken. Which is a bit silly, he supposes, since being in love with Merlin blatantly implies Arthur’s capacity to be attracted to men. Yet hearing the words spoken aloud brings up that deep, long-felt shame that’s made a home in his gut, and Arthur turns his eyes away, keeping them fixed on the table. 

“I…” he begins, and coughs, feeling strangely hot and off balanced. “I didn’t even realize it, I don’t think, until…” 

His eyes flick up to Merlin, and he watches as realization dawns on his manservant’s face, watches as his expression shifts into something shy and surprised and…

Smug? 

Arthur’s eyes narrow. 

“Don’t look so pleased,” he mutters. But he can’t help the pool of warmth that gathers in his stomach when Merlin, both flustered and perhaps a bit proud, grins. 

“I didn’t say anything,” Merlin protests weakly. 

“You didn’t have to.”

There’s a moment of silence between them, then. Not quite comfortable, maybe, but it’s filled with a certain amount of sweetness that has been lacking from their interactions lately, and Arthur basks in it for a moment, relishing in the the sound of the rain against the window pane and the feeling of warmth from the ale. 

A thought occurs to Arthur, then, and he turns to Merlin with a raised eyebrow. “What about you?” he asks. 

“What?”

“How long have you known?” The words come out sounding almost shy, and Arthur’s heart beats wildly, a part of him still unable to believe that they’re having this conversation. 

Merlin blushes and shrugs. “A while.”

“That’s not very specific.” When Merlin doesn’t answer, Arthur probes, “Come on, I was honest with you. Now it’s your turn.” He gives Merlin a small smile. “No more secrets, remember?”

Merlin snorts. “You’re going to milk the magic thing for the rest of my life, aren’t you?” he asks, sounding more amused than annoyed. 

Arthur grins. “Did you expect anything less?”

“Of course not,” Merlin responds, shaking his head. Then, he lets out a sigh and leans back in his chair, expression turning thoughtful. “I’ve known since...pretty much forever, I guess.”

Arthur’s eyes widen. “Really?” 

Merlin nods, still wearing that far-off look. Arthur watches as the shadow of sadness crosses his face. “There have been a few people over the years. There was Freya ‒” 

A wave of pure guilt washes over Arthur, and he has to remind himself that he _didn’t know,_ that there was no way he could’ve known that the bastet had been a woman whom Merlin loved. 

“ ‒ but there were a few men, too.” Merlin says it so very casually, and Arthur is struck by how comfortable he seems with the idea. 

When Arthur says his next words, they’re quiet and heavy on his tongue. “You don’t think it’s...wrong?”

Merlin’s eyes flash to his, and Arthur is slightly taken aback to see them alight with a flicker of anger. “No. Do you?”

The words are a challenge, Arthur realizes. He decides to answer as honestly as he can, because it’s just like he said: _no more secrets._

“I don’t think so. But…” He trails off, and Arthur watches as Merlin’s expression softens, seemingly catching onto Arthur’s internal struggle. “...I’ve always been told that it is. That it’s not natural, that men who do that are dishonorable. That they’re…”

“Corrupted?” Merlin supplies, quietly. 

Arthur flinches. Nods. “Yes.” 

Merlin nods, too, as if he’s received an answer to some sort of question. He takes another sip of ale, and Arthur goes to do so as well, only to find that his cup has finally run dry. _Damn._ It’s probably for the best, anyways. His head is starting to get a little too fuzzy ‒ although that may have more to do with the nature of their conversation. 

“People say the same thing about magic, don’t they?” Merlin asks, pinning Arthur with thoughtful eyes. The intensity in his gaze makes Arthur feel warm all over. 

“I suppose they do.”

“And now you know that’s not true. That all magic isn’t evil, that just because an opinion is widely-held doesn’t mean it’s _right._ ” 

Merlin’s words are hard and intense, born from emotion deeply felt, and Arthur can’t look away from him, can’t bring himself to disagree, because now that Merlin is saying it, it seems obvious that he’s right. That what they’re both feeling ‒ it’s not wrong. 

How could it be? How could something so powerful, so deep and visceral and _real,_ be wrong? And Arthur looks at Merlin, at the assurance and devotion and _love_ in his eyes, and knows that he’s thinking the very same thing. 

Arthur is at a loss for words, is unable to dredge up anything that even remotely matches the whirlwind of emotion inside him, so he merely nods and looks Merlin in the eye and hopes that what he feels shines through. 

And judging by the almost proud gleam in Merlin’s eyes, it does. 

Although it’s easy to talk about their feelings in abstract terms ‒ to make the conversation about relationships between men in a more general sense ‒ that’s not the reason they’re sitting here right now, and they both know it. The conversation lulls, and the tension picks back up as Arthur watches Merlin drain the rest of the ale from his cup, watches him wipe his mouth with the back of his hand. He licks his lips absentmindedly, catches the bottom one in his teeth, and Arthur’s heartbeat quickens. 

“Arthur?” Merlin asks, and he immediately tears his eyes away, meeting Merlin’s stare and flushing hard when he realizes that he’s been caught looking. 

He almost apologizes before remembering his own words. _No more apologies._

There's a long moment of tense silence, something hot, something _electric,_ crackling in the air between them. Just being around Merlin ‒ being in his mere presence ‒ is enough to make Arthur feel overwhelmed. And judging by the way Merlin keeps stealing glances at him, keeps shifting in his chair, eyes dark and cheeks flushed, he feels much the same. 

It’s one thing to long for someone without knowing the truth of their feelings. But now everything’s out there, laid bare. The secrets have been revealed, and they’re left with nothing to do but attempt to repair the damage. 

Because Arthur loves Merlin, and Merlin loves Arthur. 

But nothing ‒ _nothing_ ‒ can ever happen between them. 

Arthur stares into the bottom of his cup, clenches his hands into fists, and tries to push down the feeling of queasiness that arises at that final thought. 

_There’s nothing to be done,_ Arthur tells himself, breathing in deeply. Yet every instinct is telling him _no,_ telling him _of course there is.  
_

He looks up quickly, hoping to sneak a glance at Merlin, only to find his manservant already looking at him, cup clutched so tight in his hand that his knuckles have turned white. 

He could do it, he realizes. He could get up from the table, tell Merlin to follow him to his chambers. They could go inside. Lock the door. He can almost hear it now ‒ the sound of the bolt sliding into place, can hear the gentle crackle of the fire when he asks Merlin to light it for him. 

He could stand in front of Merlin, reach out and grab the hem of his tunic. Pull it over his head. Merlin could do the same to him. He imagines watching the flames dance across Merlin’s chest, imagines pulling him flush against him and pressing their lips together, because _gods,_ Merlin’s lips were fucking made for kissing, Arthur thinks, looking at them now, as they sit together in this tavern, far away from the citadel and Arthur’s chambers.

He wants to do it. Wants to say it, wants to ask Merlin _please? Just one time?_

Because Arthur thinks that maybe, if he just had Merlin once, it might be enough. 

And the mere idea of _having_ Merlin at all is earth-shattering, makes him breathless, and Arthur resists the urge to run away again, like he did that evening. 

Instead, he asks, hoarse, “Do you want to step outside?”

Merlin’s eyes widen, and Arthur is sure his mind is analyzing all the different meanings those words hold, and for a second, Arthur thinks he might refuse. 

But Merlin’s never been able to refuse him ‒ not when he asks like this, at least ‒ and he nods, almost frantic, and breathes, “Okay.”

He says it the same way he said Arthur’s name that evening, and now Arthur is standing up from the table, throwing up his hood and walking briskly to the exit. He hears Merlin’s steps behind him, but he hardly needs to, really. He thinks he’d know Merlin’s presence anywhere, anytime, anyplace. He’d know Merlin if they were standing on opposite sides of a battlefield, if they were two people at different ends of a rioting crowd. 

It’s still sprinkling when Arthur steps outside. He leads them down the alley, to the very end, towards a long-abandoned, worn-down hut. He’s been here enough times to know the lay of the land, to know secret spots and hidden corners. Places to escape to if need be, in case of a fight or an ambush. 

This isn’t a battle, Arthur knows. But with his heart going wild and his blood thrumming, it sure as hell feels like one. 

He leads Merlin inside. It’s dark, but the gleaming moon, shining in through the broken window shutters, casts enough light to see by. He hears straw crunch beneath their feet. 

And then Arthur turns, and Merlin’s standing right there, and Arthur feels like he’s going to fucking _die_ if he doesn’t kiss him _right now._ Every bone in his body, every bloody thread of his heart, every instinct is telling him to do it. He clenches his fists together, turns his head away from the stricken expression he sees on Merlin’s face.

Admits, _broken_ ‒ “ _I want you.”_ Arthur hardly recognizes his own voice for the gravel that’s turned it dark and hoarse. 

Merlin’s eyes go dark before he squeezes them shut. “I know,” he whispers, the _me, too_ implied in the two words. 

And his voice is so low, so different from Arthur’s ever heard it sound before, and all he can think is that he wants to hear it over and over again, wants to hear it say Arthur’s _name,_ wants to hear how it sounds when he ‒

Before Arthur even realizes he’s doing it, he’s gripping Merlin’s forearms and shoving him up against the wall of the house. He keeps a distance between their bodies, though, moving his hands to Merlin’s shoulders and pinning them to the wall. 

Their faces are inches apart, and Merlin’s eyes are wide, pupils blown. They flick to Arthur’s lips, his tongue peeking out to sweep against his own, and Arthur chokes back a groan, breathing in harshly and leaning forward to press their foreheads together. 

_“Fuck,"_ he whispers. Merlin gives something in between a sigh and a moan, and Arthur screws his eyes shut. 

A tense silence falls between them. Their breath mingles, the knowledge that Merlin’s lips are _right there_ , that his body is _right up against his,_ enough to make him feel utterly lost, completely _gone._

He thinks about how their conversation started, about their pure intentions. He thinks about how their only hope was to find some way to work this out without hurting Gwen. 

_Guinevere._

The guilt that stabs him is immediate and ice cold. Arthur feels as though he’s been doused with water and shudders. 

And Merlin knows, he somehow always _knows,_ because he whispers, “I know, Arthur. I know. It’s okay, it’s alright…” He pulls back, reaching up to stroke a gentle thumb across Arthur’s cheekbone. 

And Arthur is immediately reminded of their journey to Avalon, to that night by the campfire, when Arthur succumbed to exhaustion after telling Merlin, so tenderly, “ _I don’t want you to change._ ” Right before passing out, he recalls feeling that very same thumb caressing his cheek, recalls feeling utterly at peace, despite the danger ahead. 

That almost makes it worse, somehow, because what he feels towards Merlin ‒ it’s not just physical attraction. It goes even deeper than that, to the very roots of who Arthur is, of who Merlin is. 

_A half cannot hate that which makes it whole,_ Merlin had told him when relaying Kilgarrah’s words. 

And that’s it, isn’t it? Merlin isn’t just someone Arthur loves, isn’t just someone Arthur wants in his bed. 

He’s the other half of his soul, and Arthur _cannot have him._

He pulls back, sucking in deep, gasping breaths. Merlin’s hand slides down his face, and when Arthur looks at him, there’s such a deep sadness residing there that seeing it makes Arthur feel as though he’s been struck. 

“What are we going to do?” he asks, and his voice is almost desperate. “Merlin, I can’t ‒ I can’t do this, _we_ can’t do this! It’s not possible, it’s ‒ ” 

“I know, Arthur, it’s alright ‒ ”

Arthur gives a bitter laugh, cutting him off. “No, Merlin, it’s _really not._ If it were, we wouldn’t be here, would we?” And now that he’s started, there’s no holding back. “I would be in my chambers with my _wife,_ and you would be married to a lovely woman, too, and we’d be best friends, maybe even battle partners, but nothing more. And we would be okay with that.” 

He shakes his head, says ‒ “I’m not okay with that. I’m _not._ And neither are you.”

Arthur covers his face with his hands, trying to calm himself, but it’s fairly useless because Merlin is still standing right there, and Arthur knows ‒ he _knows_ ‒ that if he were to give in, were to press his body against Merlin’s, he wouldn’t say no. 

Or, perhaps he would. Perhaps Merlin would be the one to pull back, to cite honor, to remind him of Gwen. Merlin is, after all, just as concerned with goodness as Arthur is, if not more so. 

“So, no,” Arthur finishes, hands falling to his sides. “It’s not alright. I don’t think it’s going to _be_ alright. And I don’t know what to do.” His eyes fix on Merlin’s, desperate. “Please tell me what to do.” 

Because that’s what he’s always done, isn’t it? Whenever Arthur is feeling unsure of himself, of his decisions or his leadership, it’s always been Merlin who he’s turned to. Arthur’s lost track of how many times he’s dragged Merlin to his chambers after meetings, chatting about various things that were discussed in hopes that Merlin would offer his opinion, because the gods forbid he ask for it directly. 

But this time is different. This time, the decision is about Merlin. About _them._ And although he knows that Merlin can’t make his choices for him this time around, it isn’t going to stop him from asking. 

Merlin, however, looks just as helpless as him, just as conflicted and messed up and wild. “I can’t,” he whispers. 

Arthur knew that this would be the answer, but can’t help the sinking feeling of disappointment that washes over him. He feels bowled over by it. 

He has had moments of darkness before. He’s found himself in the deepest, blackest pits of despair. Morgana’s betrayal. His father’s death. Agravaine’s betrayal. _Merlin’s_ betrayal. 

But he’s never, up until this very moment, felt _hopeless._

Arthur doesn’t say anything, in the end. He just steps back, turns around, and leaves. Leaves _again,_ because he’s afraid. Because he’s sad. 

Because he can’t bear to see that look on Merlin’s face ‒ the one that says: _I love you, and I’m sorry._

* * *

_Please, hurry, leave me,_

_I can’t breath_

_Please don’t say you love me_

* * *

Two weeks pass. 

They rarely see each other, now. They keep up the pretense as best they can around Gwen ‒ all half-assed banter and plastered grins ‒ but his queen is as clever as they come, and Arthur knows she’s not convinced. 

When she asks, Arthur decides on a half-truth. 

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he tells her, trying to sound firm, but he knows that the look he gives her is desperate, that it says: _please don’t ask me, please, please,_ please. 

Gwen eventually acquiesces to his wishes, but Arthur knows this isn’t over, knows by the worried glances she shoots him during council meetings and shared dinners and the way she’s started going out of her way to avoid him, too. 

It’s at times like these where Arthur wishes, deep in the recesses of his mind, that he wasn't King of Camelot. That he wasn’t king of _anything._ Because then he could allow himself the luxury of companionship, of having more than one true friend, maybe. 

But, then ‒ who could he talk to about this? Even if he weren’t a king, there was still the issue of gender, still the issue of society looking down on him for his desires. It makes him feel almost ill, sometimes, when he thinks about how the people he cares about would look at him if they knew. 

What would Gwen say? Being his wife presents an entirely different issue, but even if they weren’t married, how would she react? Would she be understanding? Disgusted? 

That thought makes Arthur wince. He doesn’t want to imagine Guinevere ‒ his loving, _good_ Guinevere ‒ looking at him like he’s something to be despised or pitied. 

What about his knights? Percival and Leon? Would they continue to serve him loyally, or turn on him just as Kay turned on Sir Bran? It’s terrifying to think that something so trivial, so simple and natural as _loving_ someone could make those he cares about reject him. 

One evening, Arthur is sitting at a chair by the window, attempting to forget his troubles by losing himself in a book ‒ some sort of volume on Camelot’s history ‒ when there’s a soft knock at the door. 

Arthur would recognize that sound anywhere, so he’s not surprised when Gwen walks in after he gives permission, dressed in that stunning red gown that Arthur has always loved. 

She gives him a sweet smile, walking up to him and resting a hand on his shoulder, rubbing gently. She peeks at the words on the book’s spine and chuckles softly. “An interesting read, is it?”

Arthur gives a quiet snort. “Positively thrilling,” he murmurs, setting the book on the windowsill and turning to face his wife. 

Seeing her standing there, so open and endlessly loving, makes Arthur feel both safe and guilty. For once, he pushes the latter emotion inside, standing up from his chair and opening his arms. Gwen immediately tucks herself into them, arms circling his waist, face up against his chest. He relishes in the familiar feel of her, in the body he knows well after three years of marriage. 

“I love you,” he tells her, because he does, and because he thinks she needs to hear it after the way he’s been acting. 

“I love you, too,” she whispers. A moment later, she pulls back, clasping his hands in hers. “Come to bed with me,” she requests, voice soft and warm with intent. 

Arthur can’t help it; he immediately tenses, and Gwen notices. 

There’s a flash of hurt in her dark eyes, and gods, Arthur hates that, hates it more than _anything._ Because Gwen is goodness incarnate, is the sort of person who should never have to feel hurt at all, especially after everything she’s been through. 

And here Arthur is, hurting her. 

But the idea of going to bed with Gwen when he’s spent weeks longing for another is sickening to him, makes him feel positively ill with sheer guilt. And it’s not that he doesn’t desire her, not that he doesn’t _want_ to. 

It just feels _wrong,_ somehow. As if doing so would make him unfaithful. 

But that doesn’t make sense, does it? Guinevere is his queen, his _wife._ She’s the one he’s meant to be faithful too, not…

Arthur almost feels himself pale when the realization comes. 

Because while it’s true that Arthur has been faithful to Gwen when it comes to their bed, to physical expression of love, he hasn’t been so faithful when it comes to what’s in his heart. And now that same heart ‒ his damned _foolish_ heart ‒ is telling him that to sleep with Guinevere tonight would make him unfaithful to another. 

Arthur has to bite back a grimace, has to take a deep breath to stop the churning in his stomach, the feeling of fear and panic and shame. 

To Arthur’s horror, Gwen’s face falls and she steps back, letting go of Arthur’s hands as she does so. “It’s alright, Arthur,” she says, giving him a smile that might’ve been convincing if it weren’t for the sadness in her eyes. “I’m sure you must be tired. I’ll leave you to it.”

And just like that, she’s leaving, turning and heading out the door. It shuts with a soft thud. 

But that’s Gwen, he supposes. Always so gentle, whether with people’s hearts, with words, or with chamber doors.

* * *

A week later, Camelot hosts a banquet to celebrate victory over Morgana, as well as Arthur’s decision to overturn the ban on magic. 

The law had been signed a few days ago, and in the works ever since Arthur had returned from Camlann. Because despite Arthur’s ongoing sense of betrayal from Merlin’s deception, he’d known in his heart, from the moment Merlin had turned that fire into a dragon, that magic wasn’t evil. 

Because Merlin had magic. And Merlin, for all his lies and for all his secrets, _was not evil._ It was the only damn thing Arthur knew for sure. 

So, the day Arthur had returned to the round table, still tired from his wound but needing to get back to his duties, he’d put the idea up in the air, citing the assistance of sorcery in defeating Morgana’s army as justification. And though it had taken hours upon hours of debating for the council to approve, it was all worth it for the look on Merlin’s face when Arthur turned to him after the meeting was over. Arthur knew that as long as he lived, he’d never forget the pure pride, the pure _joy_ in Merlin’s eyes, and felt such a beautiful warmth in knowing that he’d helped put it there. 

The banquet is a stunning if somewhat melodramatic affair, complete with singers and musicians from all over the five kingdoms, with entertainers who swallow swords and spit flames. And, of course, platters upon platters of the finest food in Camelot. 

And wine. Thank the _gods_ for wine, Arthur thinks, motioning for a serving boy to fill up his glass for the fourth time that evening. He ignores the concerned look Gwen shoots him, lifting the cup to his lips and taking a gulp. 

He has no idea where Merlin is. Arthur spotted him earlier, hanging about with the other servants. He’d been laughing with a serving girl roughly his age, and it had taken every ounce of Arthur’s self-control not to have the head maid, Alwyn, send her away. He hasn’t had _quite_ enough alcohol to do that. 

He may be getting there, though. It seems that being vulnerable has not only turned Arthur into a coward, but also a lush. 

The thought is a passing one, but it makes him feel ashamed nonetheless, and he puts his goblet down, scooting it away, as if the distance might lessen the temptation to pick it up again. He notes Gwen giving a subtle nod of approval from the corner of his eye, and for the first time that night, he catches gazes with her and gives her his best attempt at a smile. She quirks an eyebrow and pats his hand before returning to her conversation with a courtier. 

An hour or so passes, and Arthur manages to stay away from the alcohol by instead spending his time searching the crowd for his useless, annoyingly absent manservant. Gods, just because they’re on the outs doesn’t mean he wants Merlin gone _all_ the time. 

It hurts when Merlin’s not there. Makes him feel empty. Cold. 

Of course, it also hurts when Merlin _is_ here. Makes him feel wild. Too warm. 

As if Arthur were broadcasting his thoughts into the ether, the door to the banquet hall opens and Merlin slips inside. He avoids looking at the head of the table, where Arthur is, instead sliding over to where Gaius sits and leaning down to say something to him. 

Arthur watches as Gaius gives Merlin a look of pleasant surprise. He mouths something that looks like _really?_ and Merlin gives a nod in reply, a shy smile spreading across his lips. 

He pats Merlin on the hand and gives a smile of his own ‒ and then Merlin is walking towards Arthur. 

He’s a bit shocked at the rather straightforward approach ‒ he and Merlin have been seeing each other only when necessary for Merlin’s duties, despite the way the absence makes Arthur’s heart _ache_ ‒ but quickly schools his features as Merlin comes to stand next to him. 

“Arthur?” he asks. He looks nervous, biting his lip, shifting from foot to foot. 

“Yes, Merlin?” he asks, curious despite himself. Merlin hasn’t looked this genuinely anxious in a while, their own personal troubles aside. 

“Since the banquet is celebrating the repeal of the magic ban,” Merlin begins, briefly locking eyes with Arthur before quickly looking away, “I was wondering if you might be open to me doing a...demonstration of some sorts?”

And indeed, he looks nervous, but there’s also this lovely hopeful gleam in his eye, a sort of lightness that’s been lacking in Merlin of late. And sure, there are risks to Merlin’s request ‒ there are still so few who know of his magic, for one. But Arthur doesn’t have the heart to be the one to stamp out that hope, so he gives Merlin a smile ‒ his first genuine one in weeks, it feels ‒ and says, “Of course, Merlin.” He gestures to the open space among the tables. “The floor is yours.”

A grin spreads across Merlin’s face, and the sight of it fills Arthur with such warmth, such pure fondness. He watches as Merlin gives a quick bow in thanks before making his way to the other end of the hall, where he’ll wait until the current entertainment ‒ a rather talented flute player ‒ is finished. 

Arthur looks to his left and sees Guinevere looking at him with an expression akin to pride. “That was very good of you, Arthur,” she says. 

Arthur flushes, and then tries to play it off by shrugging and saying, “Ah, well ‒ the truth had to come out at some point. Now’s as good a time as any.” 

“Indeed.”

He finds his gaze drifting to Merlin once more. His manservant appears to be full of energy, is damn near bouncing on the balls of his feet, hands clasped behind his back. 

As for Arthur ‒ he can’t help but feel a tad bit excited about Merlin’s display, despite the trepidation that goes along with it. He’s still messed up about Merlin and his deceit, about all he’s kept hidden over the years. Yet he’s also so damn _curious.  
_

And then there’s that hidden feeling ‒ the one that courses through him, unbidden, when Merlin uses his magic in front of Arthur. The one that surges up when Merlin’s eyes turn gold and he bends the elements to his command. 

But Arthur doesn’t want to think about that tonight. Not with Gwen right next to him. Not when he’s starting to feel okay, for once. 

The flute player finishes, taking a bow and grinning at the round of applause that’s given. She hurries from the floor, and then Merlin is stepping forward. Arthur feels as though his heart is stuck in his throat and when he stands, finds that his hands are shaking slightly. 

Merlin shoots him a curious look, as do the others who are gathered tonight, and it occurs to him that most of the entertainers for the evening have introduced themselves, or been introduced by other nobles. Not one has been given an introduction by the King of Camelot himself. 

But this is _Merlin._ He meets his manservant’s eyes, and the hope there ‒ the appreciation ‒ is enough to make Arthur breathless. 

“I’m sure many of you already know of Merlin,” Arthur begins, and has to hold back a wince when his voice comes out sounding rather scratchy. He clears his throat, tearing his eyes away from Merlin and instead focusing on the faces of those who sit at the tables. “He’s been my loyal manservant for nearly ten years, now. His service, as well as his friendship, have been invaluable to me.”

Arthur feels something stirring in his gut as he speaks, realizing that he’s actually _nervous_ about giving a speech for the first time in ages. Four years of being king, of talking to crowds and nobles, to villages full of people, and his heart decides to be anxious in this particular moment. _Of course,_ Arthur thinks, and forges onward. 

“The full truth of Merlin’s importance, however, is not so simple.” Arthur pauses, looking at Guinevere. He feels her hand squeeze his under the table. He turns his eyes back to the banqueters. “For there is more to Merlin’s service than I ever knew. Only recently did I learn that, and tonight ‒”

Arthur looks at Merlin, then, and is silent for a moment, because the expression on Merlin’s face ‒ gentle surprise, pride, and _love_ ‒ is enough to stop his very breath. Merlin gives him an almost imperceptible nod. 

“ ‒ tonight, he would like to show you.” 

Arthur promptly sits back down, feeling a bit nervous. He can’t help but glance around the hall, reading the expressions of those who are gathered, wondering if they could tell. If they saw the way he looked at Merlin and thought ‒ _that isn’t mere friendship._

But, of course, no one seems to be thinking that at all. Rather, most eyes are on Merlin, many looking at him with expressions of open curiosity and, in some cases, amusement. Arthur can imagine what they’re thinking. 

_Merlin? The king’s manservant? A nice fellow, sure, but what talents has he got?_

or

_This ought to be good; the gods know that Merlin is as half-witted as they come._

Arthur thinks of Merlin’s golden eyes, of the power that lurks beneath his manservant’s clever grin, and smirks. 

Merlin turns to face the head table. He first turns to Gwen, inclining his head and giving her a nervous smile. Gwen is positively beaming at her friend, and Arthur knows she’s probably been anticipating some sort of public display for a while. It _was_ inevitable, he supposes. 

Then, he turns to Arthur. His nervous smile fades away, replaced by something intense. Something focused. Arthur feels his heart beat faster, feels his chest tighten as Merlin bows, eyes never leaving Arthur’s. 

“Your majesty,” he says, voice low. Arthur’s head is buzzing with something hot and heady. 

He nods slightly in return; it’s all he can really muster, at the moment. 

Then, Merlin turns, walks a few paces away, and flips around to face the head table once more. He raises both hands in front of him. 

He whispers something in that strange language ‒ Arthur can’t quite make it out through the pounding of his heart in his ears ‒ and then, out of thin air, two dragons of fire appear. 

The gasps are immediate, and are followed by much quiet murmuring. There’s _Merlin, a sorcerer?_ and _The king’s manservant has magic!_ and _Gods, who would’ve thought_? And under normal circumstances, Arthur might be inclined to listen in on the gossip. 

As it is, he’s far too distracted ‒ too mesmerized ‒ by the sight in front of him. 

Arthur watches, stunned, as the dragons, each about the size of a hound, begin to fly about the hall, passing over people’s heads and floating up towards the high ceilings. There are exclamations of amazement and mutters of fear. 

But what strikes Arthur, what hits him like a punch to the gut, are the dragons’ _colors._

One is undoubtedly Pendragon red, a deep crimson creature. Its movements are fierce and powerful, fast and harsh. 

The other is cerulean blue. It flies with utter grace, movements flowing and beautiful. 

The two dragons do a sort of dance together, weaving in and out of each others’ paths. The red dragon bounds ahead, up towards the ceiling, and the blue follows close behind before peeling off, towards the easternmost window. 

Then it’s the red dragon’s turn to follow. It chases the blue one down, and Arthur watches as the two fiery creatures swirl around each other in a sort of circle, going faster and faster and then ‒

_Clap!_

Arthur jumps in his seat, watching as the two dragons morph into a whirlwind of red and blue flame before vanishing completely, leaving only the vaguest scent of smoke behind. 

Merlin stands below the spot where they disappeared, hands raised above his head, palms pressed together. 

He’s breathing hard, which might be strange ‒ Arthur has seen him perform more powerful magic without so much as breaking a sweat ‒ if it weren’t for the fact that he is looking right at Arthur. 

His eyes ‒ _cerulean,_ the same color as the blue dragon ‒ are almost wild as he gazes at him, and when Arthur looks closely, he realizes that his clasped hands are trembling. 

And Arthur ‒ Arthur feels as though he can’t breath, as though someone is reaching inside his chest and crushing his lungs with bare hands. He feels dizzy and hot and cold at the same time, feels like everything that’s happened in the past ten years, every interaction he’s ever had with Merlin, has led to _this moment,_ right now. 

Merlin lowers his hands to his sides, eyes still locked on Arthur. And Arthur ‒ he can’t look away either, can only stare in blatant amazement, blatant wonder. 

Because it’s obvious what those two dragons were, isn’t it? Pendragon red and cerulean blue. 

_Arthur and Merlin._

_Merlin and Arthur._

And it’s there, in the middle of the banquet hall, with the entire court looking at him and _Merlin_ looking at him, that Arthur realizes that he is doomed to love this man until the end of his life and beyond.

He is doomed to love him even when the life leaves his body, when the stars fade and the earth itself crumbles into dust. In whatever lies beyond their world, wherever that may be ‒ Arthur will _love him.  
_

He rises from his chair, the sound of it scraping against stone as loud as thunder in the otherwise quiet hall. He feels the panic come in full force, the panic and the shame and the fear and ‒

He takes a deep breath, somehow manages to say, “Thank you for your display, Merlin” and, immediately after, “I’ll be retiring for the night. Good evening.”

He waves a shaking hand in goodbye ‒ _gods, surely they must see?_ ‒ and all but flees the hall. 

The door shuts with a resounding bang behind him. The corridor is quiet as Arthur walks, _too_ quiet, and all he can hear is the sound of his heart in his ears. His blood is pumping furiously, much as it does before a fight, and by the time he makes it to his chambers, he feels as though he’s about to crawl out of his skin. 

Hands shaking ‒ _damn it,_ when did he become so _weak?_ ‒ he pulls the cloak from his shoulders, undressing in record time. He slips on his sleep clothes and goes to stand by the window, placing both hands on the sill and sucking in breath after breath, arms trembling. 

And he wishes he knew what to do to make this _feeling_ go away, this feeling that’s been taunting him, assaulting him since that first night after his return from Camlann. Gods, Arthur thinks he might even be willing to use _magic,_ use some sort of elixir or spell, if it would make this all go away. 

Because if _this_ is love ‒ hurting and endless wanting, warmth without an outlet, denial, suppression, _pain_ ‒ then he does not want it. He _does not want it._

The door to his chambers opens, and Arthur knows by the sound of feet against stone that it’s Gwen. He doesn’t turn around, because he can’t look at her, can’t let her see what must be so clearly written on his face. 

“Arthur?” 

The name is spoken so delicately, with such love and concern. Arthur feels as though he might be sick. 

“Go, Guinevere,” he says. He does not recognize his voice, does not recognize the way it trembles and burns. 

More footsteps, and then a hand presses gently on Arthur’s shoulder. “Arthur, _please,_ ” she says, sounding desperate. “Won’t you tell me what’s wrong?”

She rubs gentle circles, and the usually comforting gesture only makes Arthur feel worse. Guiltier. 

When Arthur doesn’t answer ‒ is too wrecked by the emotional hurricane he’s been caught in to speak ‒ she continues, sounding as if she’s on the verge of tears herself, “It’s been over a month now, since you returned from Camlann. You’ve been acting so strange, so sad, and something has clearly happened between you and Merlin and I’m just ‒”

She breaks off suddenly, and the hand on his shoulder grows tighter. “I’m just worried because you’re not telling me, and I can only figure that it’s something awful, and I keep wondering what that is and I’m...I’m _frightened,_ Arthur. For you, and for Merlin.” She pauses, and her voice is so very quiet when she says, “I want you two to be okay again.” 

Arthur’s palms on the windowsill grow tighter, and he finally opens his eyes, gazing out onto the grounds of the citadel below. 

_I want you two to be okay again._ As if he and Merlin will ever be _okay again,_ after tonight. 

He turns around, finally, still trembling a little. Just as Arthur suspected, Gwen’s eyes gleam with unshed tears, and the sight ‒ his wife, his queen, so lost and confused and _sad_ because of all that Arthur isn’t telling her ‒ nearly breaks him. 

He covers his face with his hands. Breathes in. Breathes out. His exhale is shaky, and he feels so terrified, so fucking _terrified._

He hears the ruffle of Gwen’s dress as she moves towards him, feels her hands cover his own. He lets her pull them down and clasp them in her own. Her sweet brown eyes gaze up into his. “You said you weren’t upset with Merlin over his magic,” she murmurs. “Yet after his demonstration tonight, you just up and left so suddenly, and I...can’t help but wonder if you’re lying to me. If you really _are_ still angry, and just not telling me because you’re ashamed. It’s the only thing that makes sense.”

And Arthur ought to be relieved, ought to be grateful that this is how his swift exit will be perceived by the banqueters. He ought to take the out. 

But he looks into Guinevere’s eyes, sees the pure, unconditional love that resides there, and knows that he can’t. To look directly at such openness and lie would be a betrayal of his greatest values, of all that he is. 

He recalls standing up to Uther, all those years ago, and proclaiming his love for Gwen. Recalls feeling pride beyond words when they finally married, knowing that he was joining himself for the sake of love, rather than duty. 

No ‒ love has never been easy for Arthur Pendragon. But he has always, _always_ been true to his heart. No matter the obstacle. No matter the consequences.

He has to tell her the truth. 

Gwen cups his face with her hands and whispers, “Arthur, _please._ Whatever it is, you can tell me.” She pauses, leans up to kiss him on the lips. Pulls back and says, “I love you.”

And Arthur isn’t crying, but as he pulls away from her embrace and goes to stand in front of the fireplace, he feels closer to tears than he has since that evening weeks ago. 

“It’s not the magic, Gwen,” he says. The words are hoarse, and it takes every bit of courage he’s got in him to keep talking. “I wish it was the magic, but it’s not.”

“Whatever it is, Arthur ‒ it’s alright. I won’t be angry, I ‒”

“That’s because you don’t know,” he says. “You have _no idea,_ Gwen.” 

He flips around, guilt tearing up his insides. Gwen takes a step back, shocked by the sudden movement, and Arthur watches as a bit of trepidation makes its way onto her face for the first time. 

_Good,_ Arthur thinks. She’ll need to prepare herself for this one, because if her little speech about Merlin’s magic moments ago is true ‒ if that’s really all she suspects ‒ then his wife is about to be blindsided. 

His breath comes faster and he keeps looking at Gwen, just stares brokenly, as if hoping she’ll somehow _know,_ and he won’t have to tell her. 

It’s kind of ironic, he thinks distantly, that after spending weeks trying to hide even a hint of his feelings, he’s hoping she’ll guess it just by looking him in the eye. 

But no matter how clever Guinevere is ‒ no matter how good she is at reading him ‒ she’ll never know unless Arthur tells her. He’s spent too long repressing it, too long denying it, has overcompensated for his feelings with insults and mockery and teasing, and really, it’s no fucking wonder that no one’s figured it out, given Arthur has spent the last ten years downplaying Merlin’s importance in his life. 

“If it’s not the magic,” Gwen asks, “then what happened between you and Merlin?”

Arthur looks at her, then ‒ really looks at her ‒ and sees nothing in her eyes save for concern and a little bit of fear from earlier. 

She has no idea. 

Arthur has to tell her. 

He opens his mouth to say it ‒ gods, he _swears_ he’s going to say it ‒ but nothing comes out but choked air. And now Gwen is _really_ worried, even more than before, and now _her_ hands are shaking and she’s stepping forward and saying, “ _Please,_ Arthur, you’re scaring me! Whatever it is, I don’t care, just, _please_ ‒”

“I’m in _love_ with him.”

Silence. 

Arthur’s eyes are closed. He squeezed them shut the moment he opened his mouth, and he’s glad for it, because he’s never been so scared of anything in his life than he is of the look on Gwen’s face. 

He turns around, facing the fire, and opens them again. His breathing is ragged and his heartbeat is hammering. He brings his hands to his face once more and finally, _finally,_ sinks to the floor, landing hard on his knees. The sound of it is like the crack of a whip in the absolute quiet.

 _I love you,_ Arthur had told Merlin weeks ago, in these very chambers, in front of this very fireplace. 

Three little words. Who knew that was all it took to bring Arthur Pendragon, the Once and Future King, to his knees? 

The silence stretches on for what feels like hours, broken only by the sound of Arthur’s harsh breathing and Gwen’s quieter, yet no less ragged, breaths from behind. 

Finally, she whispers, “ _Oh._ ”

One little word, if you could even call it that. Filled with utter shock and little else. Gods, she’s probably too surprised to even _feel_ anything else. 

Arthur probably feels enough for them both, anyways. He hangs his head, breathes in and out, in and out, trying to bring himself under control. He’d hoped that getting the words out would make it better, make it bearable, but now finds that he’s even more scared than before, because Gwen’s not really saying anything and _fuck,_ he’s gone and ruined everything, hasn’t he?

“I never…” Gwen’s voice sounds strange, far-off, as if she’s been so taken aback by Arthur’s confession that it’s caused her to mind to go somewhere else entirely. “I never thought...I didn’t…”

 _Didn’t know._ Arthur imagines that’s what she’s probably trying to say. 

He thinks he should say something else ‒ _I’m sorry,_ maybe? ‒ but his mind is going wild right now, with guilt and fear and love, because he’s still thinking about Merlin, fucking _Merlin,_ and how he’d looked at him in the banquet hall. 

He feels sick with all the conflicting emotions, feels like he did that first night, when the _feeling_ first came to him and he threw up everything in his stomach until he retched blood. 

“How long?” Gwen asks, and there’s something else creeping into her tone now, something that’s causing her voice to shake. He’s not sure if it’s anger or sadness. He’s not sure he wants to know. 

“I don’t really know,” Arthur answers honestly, after a long moment. The words are quiet and gravelly, and he slumps even further, sliding off of his knees and sitting on the floor instead, pulling one leg up. He runs a hand through his hair, over and over. Wipes the sweat from his forehead. 

“What does that mean?” Gwen asks, voice trembling, and Arthur gets his answer: _anger.  
_

“I don’t...I just don’t ‒ it’s ‒ I don’t think I _really_ knew until ‒”

“Really knew? What does that _mean,_ Arthur?” 

“I don’t know, Gwen, I ‒” He shakes his head, glad that he’s turned away, because now he knows that she’s angry and he can’t bear it, can’t _bear_ to see another person that he loves turn against him. 

Of course, this time it’s _Arthur’s_ fault. Arthur’s fault and no one else’s. 

“It’s hard to explain,” he finishes, and Gwen makes a sound not unlike a scoff, only much more hurt. 

“It’s really not, Arthur,” she says, her voice somehow both completely cold and completely broken. “How long have you been in love with him?”

“I don’t _know,_ Gwen,” he says, and now _he’s_ getting angry, and gods, this is all so messed up. “It’s not that simple ‒”

“Arthur, _look at me_!” 

The words are like a jolt to Arthur’s heart, sending shock waves of pain through his chest. Gwen has _never_ raised her voice like this before; he’s never seen her so _angry,_ and he realizes he has no idea what to say or do. 

Yet when Arthur turns around, it’s not anger that he sees on Gwen’s face. 

It’s pain. Pure, visceral _hurt._ Tears are streaming down her face, and it occurs to Arthur that this is why her voice has been shaking. 

And there is some anger there, Arthur realizes. It’s in the clench of her fists and the firm line of her lips, but it’s all overshadowed by the sadness that emanates from her. Sadness and confusion, and shock, too, as if a part of her still can’t believe it.

“I’m trying to ask,” she says, eyes burning into his, lips trembling, “if you married me knowing that you loved another.” She pauses, dips her head a little, breaking eye contact. “If you ever loved me at all.”

Her voice cracks on the final word, and then she’s burying her face in her hands and crying. And it’s a soft sort of cry, more delicate than devastating, yet Arthur almost wishes she would sob instead, wishes she would scream and rage and weep until she fell to her knees, just as he had. All of that would be easier to bear than the quiet, broken tears she’s shedding now. 

If this were any other moment, Arthur would get up, walk over there and cradle her in his arms. He’d fit his body to hers, like he did that night in Ealdor, four years ago now, would tuck his face into her neck. He’d whisper sweet nothings and kiss the tears off of her lips, and they’d both know that it would all be okay eventually. 

This is not that moment. 

But he also can’t say _nothing,_ cannot possibly let Gwen think that what she has just suggested is the truth. 

“Guinevere,” he says. When she doesn’t look up, just stands there crying ‒ Arthur’s heart is _breaking_ ‒ he repeats himself. “ _Guinevere._ ”

She looks up, finally, sucking in a deep breath, as if to prepare herself. 

“I love you,” Arthur says. “I loved you when I married you, and I love you now. I swear on all there is ‒ on my mother’s grave ‒ that it’s true.” 

There’s a very long moment of quiet, in which Arthur stares and Gwen stares back, and the fire burns low in the hearth, and the darkness of the evening grows heavier yet. 

Finally, she nods. She doesn’t look surprised, but he does catch a hint of relief in her eyes, in the way her body loosens a little, shoulders dropping slightly. 

“I believe you,” she says. 

She does. Arthur can tell. 

He’s just not sure it matters. 

He pulls his eyes away, staring at the stone floor as the moments tick by in silence. It’s too difficult to look at Gwen when she’s like this. 

Although Arthur knows it’s only been minutes, it feels like it’s been hours when Gwen moves once more. She walks from the table over to a dresser near the fireplace, all the while keeping the distance between her and Arthur. He shifts towards her as she does so, so he’s still facing her, sensing that she’s about to speak. 

She turns to face him directly, firelight sparking off the tear stains on her cheeks, and lifts her chin. And Arthur recognizes that look, knows it in his bones. It’s the same one she gave him nine years ago, right before she told him off for the awful behavior he’d shown while staying in her home. The same one she gives him now, when she’s about to tell him something he doesn’t want to hear, and Arthur immediately knows what she’s about to ask. 

“Have you slept with him?”

And the mere _idea_ of that is enough to send part of Arthur somewhere else, to make his whole body go hot and his jaw clench, so hearing it spoken aloud makes his mind go nearly blank. He takes a moment to gather himself, to breath in deeply before saying, “No.” 

Then, more ardently, “I wouldn’t do that to you, Gwen. I _wouldn’t._ I swear.”

The memory slams right into him, of that night in the tavern and the abandoned hut afterwards, of the way he’d pressed Merlin into the wall. The way Merlin’s eyes went completely dark and that little sound he’d made.

Arthur clenches his fists, shoves the memory away. But something of it must be written on his face, because a moment later, Gwen whispers, “You want to, though.”

It’s not a question, and yet Arthur gets the sense that she’s waiting for some sort of response.

But Arthur doesn’t say anything. How could he? He’d either have to lie to his wife or admit to something so deeply buried that speaking it aloud might rip a hole right through him. 

Perhaps it’s a blessing, then, that Gwen seems to take his silence as an answer in and of itself. She nods, biting her lip, and looks away from him. 

And the worst thing of all, Arthur thinks, is that it’s not even as simple as him wanting to take Merlin to bed. He wants it ‒ _gods,_ does he want it ‒ but it’s so much more than that. 

He wants Merlin’s stupid, overly cheerful morning grins. He wants his counsel, his nods of approval when Arthur does something particularly _kingly,_ as Merlin likes to put it. He wants Merlin’s sparkling blue eyes on him, wants his words of comfort in those moments when Arthur feels the weight of his duties crushing him, burying him under layers of fear and worry. He even wants the _magic,_ wants that feeling he gets when Merlin’s eyes turn gold, when his being lights up with the power that lurks within. 

He wants _all_ of him, wants nothing less than Merlin in his baffling, beautiful entirety. 

And even though he knew that already ‒ even though these are the exact thoughts that have been plaguing him for weeks now, damn near tortuous ‒ it hits him even harder now that Gwen is here, a witness to the storm inside him, and suddenly it’s just _all too much._

There’s anger and sadness, desire and guilt, and it’s all coursing through him all at once and he’s just _sick_ of it, sick of _feeling._ He stands up abruptly, dizzy and off-balanced and wild, and begins to pace back and forth in front of the fireplace, needing some outlet for this impossible energy. 

He gets this urge to break something, perhaps; he thinks about storming over to the window, pulling back his arm and launching his fist into the glass, thinks that the pain and the crack of the shatter might do something to calm the chaos inside his head. 

But then he’d be bleeding, would have to go to Gaius and have the physician pull the bits of glass from his hand. And wherever Gaius is, Merlin is usually not far off. 

And besides ‒ no matter what he’s feeling right now, he’s learned to reign in his temper over the years. He’s the King of Camelot, and he’s mastered the art of self-control in almost all areas of his life. And although it’s always been most difficult for him when it comes to matters of the heart, Arthur has no desire to act out in some petty, childish way. He’s better than that, if nothing else. 

Just because he doesn’t do it, though, doesn’t mean the urge fades. Clenching his fists, Arthur stops his pacing and decides that the only way to sort through his feelings is to say something, say _anything._

He faces Gwen. She’s in the same spot as earlier, eyes wide and emotive as she watches him, still red-rimmed from the tears. She’s stopped crying, though; she seems to have settled on a more solemn sort of melancholy. She has both arms wrapped around her stomach, as if she’s ill. Arthur imagines her feelings of queasiness echo his own. 

“I’m sorry,” Arthur says, as if that could possibly make this any better. The naive part of him ‒ the part he usually keeps a tight leash on, usually recognizes for its childishness ‒ wishes that it somehow would, that Arthur could just apologize and Gwen could say _I forgive you_ and that would be all. 

But apologies won’t cut it this time, and Arthur is suddenly wracked with the urge to just _say_ it, to just let it all out because he’s not sure he’s going to get another chance. 

So he does. 

“I didn’t mean for it to happen,” he begins. “I didn’t ‒ I just got back from Camlann and I was lying in bed and _thinking_ about everything, and I just sort of realized it. It just hit me, out of nowhere. Everything we said while we were journeying to Avalon, it’s like it just ‒ just ripped something out of me, something buried so deeply that I...” He swallows, tearing his eyes away from Gwen, because this is where it gets hard. “You asked me earlier how long and I ‒ I would be...lying to you if I said that it never occurred to me, that I never thought about it. There were times when I would, but only for a moment. Only a little, and not in any... _real_ way. I think, maybe…” 

He trails off for a moment, lifting his eyes to Gwen. Her expression is written in shades of hurt and sorrow, of _betrayal,_ because she knows what he’s about to say. 

“I think I always knew. Maybe.” He squeezes his eyes shut. Shakes his head and sucks in a deep breath, and finishes, so very softly ‒

“I knew.”

Because he had, hadn’t he? He’d had those flickering moments of longing, of wanting, but they would only surface for a moment before Arthur would shove them down, beat them into submission with all the fury he would show an enemy in battle. 

It was only when he and Merlin traveled to Avalon together, when Arthur finally, _finally_ let himself be vulnerable in a way he’d never let himself before, that it all came rushing in on him. He’d been falling in love all along, slowly ‒ perhaps since the very day they met, when Merlin had looked at him with those sparkling blue eyes the first time, with that cheeky grin ‒ and their journey, and all that was said and shared between them, was the final crash to the ground. 

“And yet you married me,” Gwen says, after a long moment. Arthur opens his eyes, looking his wife in the eye because it’s what she deserves, no matter how much it hurts to do so. Gwen deserves nothing less than the best ‒ always has, and always will. 

“Because I loved you, Guinevere,” he says, and flushes at the way his voice cracks. “I still do. And ‒” He cuts himself off, shaking his head. 

“What?”

“It’s not important ‒”

“Gods, Arthur, _please._ ” Gwen’s eyes are pleading. “Just tell me. I’m not a weak-hearted damsel. I can handle it.”

Arthur sighs, going over to the mantle and placing his hands up against it. The heat from the flames has turned less harsh, has died down as the night wears on. Arthur almost wishes it would burn, would _hurt._ It’s the least he deserves after breaking Guinevere’s heart. 

“It’s not like anything could’ve happened between us,” he says. The words are a mere echo of the terrible truth that has brought them forth, of the deep set hopelessness that Arthur has always felt, on some level, when it comes to how he feels for Merlin. 

“I recall you saying something similar about _our_ courtship,” Gwen reminds him. Arthur winces. 

“It’s hardly the same, Guinevere.”

“How so?” she questions, defiant. Arthur feels the heat of sudden anger sweep through him, and he digs his fingers into the stone of the mantle, biting his lip. He doesn’t want to yell at her. She doesn’t deserve that. 

“He’s a _man,_ Guinevere,” Arthur bites out, and is shocked when she gives an almost angry scoff. 

“Yes,” she acquiesce, “he is. And while that might mean you could never marry, never have children, it hardly means that you could never have made it work in some way. There are many ways of loving someone, but you never even _tried,_ Arthur!”

And now Arthur is getting confused. He turns to face her, eyebrows pulled together. “You almost sound as if you’re angry with me for...for not choosing him, instead.”

Gwen gives a bitter laugh, shaking her head and now she’s turning away. She walks a few paces towards the door, slowly, before spinning around and saying, “I am angry, Arthur! I’m angry and I’m hurt because you love someone else ‒” Her voice cracks, and Arthur’s afraid she’s about to cry once more. 

But she takes a deep breath, pulling herself together, and continues, “ ‒ but I’m also disappointed and confused, because that’s not _you_ , Arthur!”

“Not me? What are you ‒”

“For as long as I have known you,” Gwen interrupts, and she’s clearly on a roll now, one that Arthur doesn’t have the strength to stand in the way of, “you have always been true to your heart, above all else. When it comes to your kingdom, you’ll do your duty. You’ll do what you have to. But when it comes to the people you _love_ ‒” She breaks off once more, looks him deeply in the eye, and Arthur almost sees something akin to admiration there, among all the other more awful emotions. “When it comes to the people you love, you’ll let nothing stand in your way. Gods, Arthur, I was a _servant,_ and you married me anyways, because you loved me. You knew how people would look at it, knew that there would be those who disapproved, who saw you as lesser because of our union. But you didn’t care.”

She pauses, letting her words sink in. Then ‒ “I just don’t understand why it’s different with _him._ ”

And gods, Arthur has no idea how to explain that, how to tell her that when it comes to Merlin, _everything_ is different. That his feelings for Merlin are deeply complex, derived from years of secret longing. That their very souls are entwined, as fated by destiny itself, that Arthur’s love for him is so powerful, so very connected to the essence of who Arthur _is_ , that it terrifies him. 

How does one look that sort of love in the eye and _not_ feel afraid of it?

“It’s hard to explain,” he says, finally. 

She lifts her chin once more. Looks at him directly, with all the hurt and defiance and love she feels for him on full display. 

“Try.”

He turns away from the fire, away from Gwen. He walks over to the table, all but collapses into one of the chairs, bringing his elbows up and resting them on the wood. He entwines his fingers together, waiting quietly while Gwen comes to sit next to him. 

“It’s like…” Arthur is flushing hard, and he’s barely even started speaking yet. He looks resolutely away from Gwen, fixes his eyes on the grain of the wood, traces over the lines and bumps, all the while trying to calm his racing heart. “What I feel for ‒ for _him_ ‒ it’s...overwhelming.” 

And gods, this is awful. Just these few words are enough to make Arthur feel as though he’s stripped bare. But Gwen asked, and after all the hell he’s put her through tonight, he is going to explain, even if it eats him up until he’s raw and bloody.

“It’s as though he’s...a _part_ of me, like…” Arthur shakes his head, moves a hand up, running it through his hair. “Like if he were to ever leave, half of me would go with him. And just the _thought_ of that, of him leaving, or dying ‒” 

Arthur has to choke that word out.

“ ‒ makes me feel sick and cold. And sometimes he looks at me and I ‒ it’s like I can’t _breathe,_ like tonight, in the hall. After he was done, I was just looking at him and I realized that I’ll never ‒ ”

He breaks off, then, letting his entwined hands drop to the table, nails digging into the wood. 

“I realized that I’ll never stop feeling like this.” He looks up at Gwen, into her eyes that hold so much ‒ sadness and heartbreak and pure _compassion_ ‒ and says, nearly whispering, “I _love_ him, Guinevere. I love him in a way I never thought possible.” 

And then he’s done. He can’t say any more because his face is burning and his hands have begun to shake. Hell, his whole body feels as though he’s caught fire, and he’s not sure if it’s embarrassment, guilt, or shame. Probably all three. 

Part of him expects Gwen to be angry, to be mournful. And while Arthur can see both of these things in the way she looks at him, there’s something incredibly thoughtful in her expression. It’s the way she gets when she’s musing, when she’s in a pensive sort of mood, and a moment later she says, “I think I know what you mean.”

Her voice is still a bit hoarse from crying. She reaches up to wipe at her eyes and then continues, “When I first met Lancelot, all those years ago...I felt much the same. I was drawn to him, and when he died, I felt as though ‒ ” 

She stops abruptly, squeezing her eyes shut, and Arthur’s heart aches at the resurgence of her old grief. 

She takes a very deep breath and opens her eyes once more. “I felt as though there was this hole in me. Like he took something vital when he left.” She meets Arthur’s gaze. “Something I could never get back.”

He immediately gets the implications of the words: _something even you could not replace,_ and he feels no anger. Only a deep, visceral sadness on behalf of his beautiful, graceful wife. His queen. 

“I’m sorry,” Arthur says, for what must be the tenth time that night ‒ only this time, he knows precisely what he’s apologizing for. 

If Guinevere felt for Lancelot even a fraction of what Arthur feels for Merlin, he can only imagine the pain his death caused her, both times. He thinks of Merlin dying and returning to him, only to be ruthlessly ripped away once more, and feels as though a pit has opened in the bottom of his stomach, deep enough to drown in. 

Gwen only nods, as if she knows what he is thinking. 

“It seems we’ve both had a difficult time when it comes to love,” Arthur murmurs, attempting to dredge up a small smile. He thinks it comes out as more of a grimace, though. 

Ever gracious, Gwen gives a tiny, choked laugh and a wry, watery smile. “Indeed.”

And then there’s the question, hanging in the air over both of their heads. It’s so obvious, so glaring, but Arthur cannot bring himself to voice it. He still feels raw, feels cut open and bare, and wants nothing more than to drag himself to his bed and lay there for a very long time. Possibly forever, if he could get away with it. 

In the end, it’s Guinevere who has the bravery to say it. “You said,” she begins, “that you think you’ll feel this way forever. That it’s not something you can merely wait out.”

“Yes,” Arthur says quietly. Guiltily. Almost says _I’m sorry,_ but knows it’s pointless. 

There’s a long moment of silence, then, in which a number of emotions flash across Gwen’s face. Hurt. Betrayal. Anger and understanding.

Then she straightens, placing both of her hands on the table, and, to Arthur’s surprise, reaches forward to grab one of his. She squeezes it, and he meets her eyes. 

She says ‒ “I think we both know what needs to happen now.”

But Arthur _doesn’t._ He has no idea what to do, is confused as to why Gwen thinks the answer is so obvious. 

He shakes his head. “Gwen, I ‒ I _don’t._ I’ve been doing nothing but thinking about this for weeks, and I just...I don’t see a way out of this. Not a way that won’t hurt you.”

Guinevere’s lips tip up into the sweet, sad smile. “I’m stronger than I look, Arthur,” she says, and suddenly Arthur understands. 

He immediately stands up, shaking his head once more. He keeps ahold of her hand, squeezes it tighter and says, “ _No,_ Gwen.”

She continues on as if he hasn’t spoken. “Do you know what I love about you more than anything else?” She doesn’t wait for an answer, looking deep into Arthur’s eyes as she says, “How passionately you love. In so many ways, you’re the most controlled man I know. You’re precise and strategic, and you’ve mastered your temper much better than your father ever did.” 

She pauses, as if giving him space to protest. He doesn’t. 

“Yet when it comes to love, you...you _throw_ yourself into it. You might not say all that you feel, but you show it in the most incredible ways. You risk your life on dangerous quests, you put aside your prejudices. You defy your father. Your king.

“It’s terrifying, sometimes, to be on the receiving end of that. There have been times where you’ve done something reckless to keep me from harm, and it’s made me so _angry._ So worried. But other times, it’s like...like staring into the sun itself, bearing nearly blinded but unable to look away. It’s wild and passionate and _beautiful._ ” 

Arthur flushes hard at that, moving shiftily on his feet and looking down at the hand that’s still gripping Gwen’s. 

“I could never live with myself,” Gwen continues, and Arthur spies the gleam of tears in her eyes. “if I were to deny Merlin the chance to know what that feels like. And I could never live with myself to deny you him, either. Not when I _know_ that love, when I understand what it would mean for you to keep that locked inside.” 

For a moment, Arthur is speechless. He can only look at Gwen ‒ his _wife_ ‒ and feel completely, utterly undeserving of the compassion she is showing him. 

“I won’t do it, Gwen,” he whispers. “I won’t betray you.”

Gwen laces her fingers through his own and stands up from her chair. She places a hand on his cheek. 

“You won’t have to.”

* * *

He tells her _no,_ over and over again, but Guinevere won’t have it. 

There are too many risks, Arthur says. Her reputation won’t survive. She’ll be a commoner once more, yet will still likely be recognized by the citizens of Camelot, many of whom will be inclined to treat her as lesser due to all of this ‒ which means she’ll probably have to _leave_ Camelot, if she is to live in peace. 

All of it makes Arthur sick with guilt, and he is relentless in his insistence that she stay, that she continue to be his queen. 

“I’ll be okay,” he says to her, pleadingly, even as a part of him, deep in his heart, tells him to _stop,_ tells him to let it happen, to take the opportunity she’s handing him so openly. “Me and Merlin ‒ we’ll figure something out. We’ve gone this long without ‒ without anything, we can keep ‒”

Gwen raises a hand, cutting him off. “Arthur,” she tells him, in that determined, _you cannot persuade me_ voice of hers. “I’m not going to change my mind.”

She’s in the midst of packing some of her things when she tells them this ‒ it’ll take a few days to get everything ready, and that’s not including the official documentation they’ll have to do ‒ and Arthur is about to protest when there’s a knock on the door. 

Arthur knows that knock. He freezes, not saying anything. Gwen gives him a hard look, keeping her eyes on him as she raises her voice to call out, “Come in.”

Merlin walks in, already speaking. “I was hoping you could tell me where to find ‒ ”

He stops when he sees them. 

“ ‒ Arthur.”

Arthur coughs awkwardly, heartbeat quickening. “Merlin,” he acknowledges. “I think I recall telling you to work on that speech for next week.”

Merlin’s momentarily startled expression slides into the one they’ve both been using around Gwen for weeks now, the fairly convincing one with a dry twist of a smile. “You did, sire. At least five times, I think. That’s actually why I was hoping to speak with you.” 

He moves further into the room, and Arthur can see he’s holding a piece of parchment in his hands. Arthur watches as Merlin looks up from what he presumes is a speech draft and, for the first time, takes in the sight of the bags of Gwen’s bed. 

He stops walking. The hand holding the parchment falls to his side, expression turning puzzled. To anyone else, he might seem merely curious. But Arthur knows every quirk of the eyebrow, knows every smile and frown, and understands that the look in his eye signals caution. 

“Are you going somewhere, Gwen?” he asks, still eyeing the bags. Arthur watches as his eyes scan all that lies there, sees the moment where Merlin catches sight of the winter clothing. 

Clothing she wouldn’t need unless she was going on a very, very long trip. 

Merlin’s entire body stiffens. His eyes flick between Arthur and Gwen, back and forth a few times before settling on Arthur. His expression tightens. 

Then he asks, very quietly, “What did you do?”

Arthur tenses and remains silent. Merlin’s presence has already stirred up the usual emotions ‒ sadness and confusion, guilt and _want_ ‒ and now Arthur feels even more unbalanced, unprepared for Merlin’s anger. His accusation. 

Because Merlin is staring daggers at him, and there’s a quiet fury in the way he holds himself, in how he lifts his chin as he looks Arthur directly in the eye. 

“Arthur,” he says, voice hard. 

And then Gwen is stepping forward, towards Merlin. “Merlin,” she begins, said man’s eyes flicking over to her, immediately turning softer as they do. 

That changes, though, when Gwen says, “This was _my_ choice.”

That softness turns to _hurt_ , to confusion. Those dark blue eyes turn wide, and he shakes his head. “No,” he says, voice cracking, almost as if he’s in denial. “No, Gwen ‒ you can’t ‒ ”

“I can, and I _am._ ”

“Gwen, please, you don’t have to do this.” Merlin’s face is pained, and he sets the parchment down on the table before approaching Gwen, as if he wants to reach out, but stops right in front of her instead. He twists his hands together, a tell-tale sign of anxiety that Arthur has learned to recognize over the years. “Arthur and I ‒ ” 

Arthur doesn’t miss the way Merlin’s voice catches on his name, the way Merlin briefly looks at him, face shadowed with guilt and something else. 

“ ‒ we’re just…” He swallows hard. “Whatever he told you, it doesn’t change the fact that you ‒ you’re his _wife._ Gwen. His queen. You can’t leave. He _needs_ you.”

Merlin is right, of course. Arthur _does_ need Gwen. He loves her, has been married to her for three years, now. Her love, her very presence ‒ it’s a vital part of who Arthur is, and as he stands here now, imagining her leaving him for good, he feels terrified and sick. 

But then he looks to Merlin ‒ Merlin, who is his rock. His guiding light, his _other half._ And he cannot possibly imagine living without him, either. 

It’s Gwen who ends up stepping forward. She reaches out, grabbing Merlin’s hands in her own. “I know,” she says softly. “But he needs you, too. In a way that he will not let himself unless I go.” 

There’s a very long moment where Merlin just stares at her, shocked and guilty and so, so sad. And then he whispers, “I don’t want you to go, Gwen,” and Arthur’s heart just _breaks._ Merlin and Gwen have been friends for longer than Arthur has loved her. He imagines that the prospect of Gwen’s departure is almost as painful for him as it is for Arthur. 

Gwen smiles then, and it’s so very brave of her. But Arthur can see the pain in her eyes, and although he wants to look away ‒ wants to pretend this isn’t happening ‒ he doesn’t. To do so would be cowardly, and Arthur is done running away. 

“This isn’t goodbye, Merlin,” she says. “I’ll still come back and visit, and once I settle down, I’ll write. Then, you can come and see me whenever you’d like.” 

She looks at Arthur, then. “Both of you can.”

And Arthur realizes, quite suddenly, that she’s _going_ to do this. No matter what he or Merlin say, she’s made up her mind. She’s got a plan already, from the sound of it ‒ probably even has a destination picked out. 

That won’t stop him from trying one more time. 

He steps forward, towards both of them. He glances at Merlin, and as the two catch eyes, he realizes that his manservant has come to the same conclusion. 

He turns to Gwen, and she to him, letting go of Merlin’s hands. She lifts her chin, and something in Arthur just aches in the face of her pure determination. 

“You don’t have to do this,” he tells her, putting every ounce of conviction that he has into the words. “You can stay. _You can stay._ ” 

Gwen shakes her head. And unlike the night before, her eyes are clear of tears, although Arthur can see the quiet sorrow that lurks in them. 

“I love you, Arthur,” she says. Her voice is softer than Arthur has ever heard. “But I cannot ‒” she pauses. Shakes her head. “ ‒ _will_ not be married to someone who loves another.”

When Arthur opens his mouth to protest, Gwen cuts him off. “I know you love me, too. But after everything you told me, and…” She trails off, looking at Merlin meaningfully. Said man looks away, biting his lip, eyes wet. “...and after seeing you two now, I almost feel a bit silly. It’s quite obvious once you know to look for it.”

Arthur feels his cheeks heat. 

“I know you, Arthur,” she goes on. “And your honor will never allow you to be with Merlin while you’re still married to me. But _I_ have honor, too. Principles. And I will not stay with someone whose heart does not fully belong to me.”

She pauses, then, looking down. A shadow crosses her face. “Perhaps that makes me selfish. A hypocrite, even.” She meets Arthur’s eyes, and he knows that she’s thinking of Lancelot, now, and how part of _her_ heart will always belong to a man long dead. “But it’s true.”

Arthur’s previous sense of panic is beginning to die down, replaced by the sorrow of realization, of understanding that Guinevere ‒ his wife and queen ‒ is going to be gone in a few days, somewhere away from the castle. Away from Camelot. Away from _him.  
_

“At least…” Arthur’s voice is hoarse. “At least let me do something for you, Gwen.”

She looks at him, and he watches her, sees the moment where she understands that he is going to let her go. A mixture of emotions ‒ relief, sadness, compassion ‒ flashes across her face, and she gives a sort of subtle nod, more to herself than to him. 

“I’ll be alright, Arthur,” she says, and he shakes his head. 

“No, Gwen ‒” He steps forward, takes both of her hands and squeezes them tight. “Please. Let me do this.” 

She must see the desperation on his face, because she eventually nods. “Okay.” 

Arthur lets out a deep breath, feeling that tightness in his chest loosen, just a bit. “When you settle down, write to me. I’ll send you gold each month. And if you ever need some sort of favor ‒ bandits, sorcery, even a few villagers giving you trouble ‒ I’ll help you.”

She raises an almost admonishing eyebrow. “I’ll likely move away from Camelot, Arthur. If you were to ever send men to another kingdom ‒ ”

He raises a hand, cutting her off. He gives her a small smile, born of a deep, long-felt love and an affection he knows will never fade, no matter the years and the distance between them. 

“For you, Guinevere,” he says, “I would happily go to war.”

* * *

Gwen leaves three days later. Arthur spends the next three in his rooms, mostly, missing whatever meetings he can, drinking wine, and overall feeling quite terribly sorry for himself. 

He’s not sure how the explanation they gave for the separation ‒ _irreconcilable differences_ ‒ is being received by the castle, by the people of Camelot. Arthur knows how to access the gossip channels, knows how to get a general sense of what’s being said about him and his rule, as well as his personal life, but he doesn’t _want_ to know. Not yet, at least. 

Merlin mostly stays away, most likely assuming that Arthur needs his space. And he’s right, Arthur supposes, but he’s also not right. Because despite all that’s happened ‒ despite the shame and guilt whirling around inside him ‒ he’s still sick with want. Each time Merlin steps inside his room, he’s fucking _overcome_ with it. And now, whenever they meet eyes, there’s that unspoken truth hanging in the air. 

_We could._

But Arthur is still haunted by the guilt he feels, still restless and heartsick at Gwen’s sudden departure from his life. 

So they don’t.

* * *

Two weeks pass. It gets easier, and soon Arthur is relearning what normal means. He goes to all of his round table meetings, does training with his knights, and attends feasts and banquets as he’s supposed to. He drafts policies and talks with citizens, goes on patrols and hunts. 

And slowly, day by day, the hole in his heart begins to mend. He still feels Guinevere’s absence, feels it like the sharp tip of a sword in his gut. He finds that there are certain times of the day when it’s worse ‒ in the evenings, when they used to dine together, and at banquets, when she used to sit at his left. 

But it hurts less and less as time passes. And although Arthur suspects that her departure has left a scar that will always cause him pain, he takes comfort in knowing that Gwen ‒ with her pure sweetness, with her wit and loving nature ‒ will almost certainly find love once more. 

As for Arthur?

He is still scared. Still wild with emotion. He and Merlin slowly start to see each other more as the days go by and Arthur’s pain over Gwen begins to lessen, and each moment Arthur spends in Merlin’s presence feels both terrifying and hopeful. 

He hurts. He aches. He _wants._ And Arthur keeps waiting for the right moment to bring it up ‒ to say _something._ But each time he and Merlin lock eyes, the desire is accompanied by fear.

Because Arthur has spent so long repressing this, has spent so long not allowing himself to want, and now that he can ‒ now that he and Merlin actually have a chance ‒ he’s almost _more_ terrified. He has no idea what’s coming next, or when it will come, or what it will mean. 

He can tell that Merlin is feeling the same way, too. The two dance around each other constantly, stealing glances when they think the other isn’t looking (they almost always are) and exchanging casual touches. A brush of fingers there, when Merlin passes him something, or Arthur’s hand on Merlin’s shoulder. They spend evenings together, sometimes, in Arthur’s chambers. 

And there’s always this _something_ in the air, this tension, all born of a desire kept hidden so long that to act on it now seems impossible, despite the fact that it _isn’t._ Arthur glances at Merlin, sometimes, and almost says it. He watches Merlin polish his armor and sharpen his sword, brow furrowed in concentration, and Arthur’s fingers twitch with the urge to reach out and touch Merlin’s arm. 

Just once touch would do it, Arthur thinks. One touch and one meaningful look, and Merlin would be his. 

_His._ Just that one word is enough to make Arthur feel dizzy. 

Arthur knows it has to be him. Merlin won’t be the one to initiate; he’s waiting for Arthur to make the first move. Waiting until Arthur is completely sure.

One evening, when a month has gone by, Arthur is watching as Merlin finishes up his duties, tidying Arthur’s chambers. 

“Why don’t you use magic?” Arthur finds himself asking, after spending nearly ten minutes observing Merlin put clothes away, pick up various items and toss them into chests, and a variety of other menial tasks. He thinks that such things must be terribly boring and would certainly get done much faster if Merlin were to use his gifts. 

A small part of him thinks ‒ _hopes_ ‒ that Merlin chooses to do these things by hand to extend his time in Arthur’s chambers, but that’s almost certainly wishful thinking. Right?

Merlin gives him a slightly surprised look, eyebrows raised, as he puts the final piece of Arthur’s clothing in the laundry basket by his drawer. 

And then he asks, “Do you want me to?”

Arthur just stares at him for a moment, blinking, and when an almost knowing smirk slowly spreads across Merlin’s face, he flushes. Hard. 

“It has nothing to do with what _I_ want,” Arthur snaps. “I don’t care what you do, Merlin.”

“Right,” Merlin says, blue eyes dancing. “I suppose that’s why you blush every time I use my magic in front of you.”

“I do _not_ ‒ ”

“You do. Don’t worry, though.” Merlin walks over to the table where Arthur sits, drinking a cup of water before bed and already dressed in his nightclothes. Merlin leans up against the edge a few feet away and crosses his arms, looking down at Arthur with a grin. “It’s flattering.”

Arthur scowls. “It’s hardly my intention to flatter you, Merlin,” he says, and then flushes even _harder_ because he’s just inadvertently admitted that Merlin is right.

 _Clever bastard,_ Arthur thinks. He glares at Merlin as he takes a gulp of water, but Merlin just looks back at him with that same grin. It slowly lessens, though, as he watches Arthur, eyes flicking down to his throat as Arthur swallows. 

And now Arthur is getting _very_ warm, and even as he sets down the cup, Merlin just keeps looking at him, just _looking,_ doing that stupid thing with his eyes that he’s supposedly unaware of. 

“What do you want me to do?” Merlin asks, rather suddenly. And it ought to break the tension, but the way he says it ‒ slow and careful, voice low ‒ only makes Arthur’s heart beat faster. 

“I’d _like_ you to actually do your chores for once, Merlin,” Arthur says, but as attempts at humorous banter goes, this one is sort of ruined by the way he keeps looking at Merlin’s lips. 

“I’ve just finished,” Merlin says. “But if you want to see me use my magic, I’d be happy to oblige.”

There’s an almost mischievous sparkle in his eye, along with something else. Something darker. Arthur finds that it’s getting a little harder to breathe, and although he ought to say something quite witty in response to Merlin’s assumptions about what Arthur _wants,_ he finds that he can only nod. 

“Whatever you want,” he says, a moment later, and _gods,_ what a humiliating thing to say. But now Merlin is nodding and walking away from the table, towards the center of the room. Arthur turns around, following him with his eyes. 

Facing him, Merlin simply stares at Arthur for a long moment, a smile curving his lips. His hands are clasped behind his back, and Arthur is wondering how he’s going to use his magic like that when, suddenly, the fire goes out and the room is thrown into darkness. 

There’s still the light cast by the moon, though, bright enough that Arthur can still see Merlin standing there, can make out the tall, lanky form that he’s memorized after years and years of watching, of quiet observation, of time spent together in battle. 

Merlin holds out a palm. His eyes turn gold, and a sphere of light forms above his open hand. 

And even though Arthur already knew that it was Merlin who guided him in the caves ‒ Merlin had told him _that_ evening, the night of stories that seems so long ago, now ‒ there’s something heartstopping about actually seeing it happen, about watching as the beautiful ‒ and _yes,_ it’s _beautiful,_ Arthur thinks ‒ piece of magic that led him to safety form in Merlin’s hands. 

The orb casts the room in a stunning glow, the blue hue of the light making Merlin’s cerulean eyes even brighter than usual. He looks at Arthur and smiles so very softly, and Arthur thinks that he’s never seen a sight so ethereal. 

He is speechless. Stunned. Here is all the proof of everything that Merlin has done for him, of everything he has sacrificed for Camelot. 

As if he can hear Arthur’s thoughts, he says, so quietly, “For you, Arthur.”

 _I have magic,_ Arthur remembers. _And I use it for you, Arthur. Only for you.  
_

Only for him. 

Arthur can’t breath. He can hardly even _think._ Several emotions hit him at once: amazement, wonder, sheer gratefulness. 

Love. 

Arthur looks at Merlin and says, “Thank you.” And even though he’s said it a million times already, he thinks he’d have to say it again and again until the end of time to ever make it mean anything, because _this_ ‒ Merlin’s devotion, his _love_ ‒ is not something Arthur could ever deserve. 

He wants it anyways. He wants it with every selfish thump of his bleeding, beating heart. 

“You don’t need to say thank you,” Merlin says. A moment later, the blue light vanishes ‒ Arthur almost cries out, says _no, bring it back_ ‒ and then the fire is back and it’s as if nothing ever happened. Arthur may believe it hadn’t if it weren’t for his racing heart or the warmth in Merlin’s eyes. 

Merlin smiles. “But you’re welcome.”

* * *

_You have bewitched me in body and soul, and I love, I love, I love you_

* * *

A week later, Arthur stands in the throne room, crown upon his head. 

The court has gathered, men and women decked out in their finery. It’s a gorgeous day, and the bright sun casts its rays through the glass and onto the floor and the walls, onto the dais where Arthur stands, waiting. 

There is a hushed sort of murmuring among those who stand on both sides of the aisle, where a ceremonial carpet has been laid down. Arthur might be inclined to listen if it weren’t for the way his heart is going wild, pounding in his ears. His palms sweat, his breathing is near labored, and it takes every bit of his noble-bred propriety to keep from shifting from foot to foot nervously. 

Finally, the doors swing open. Merlin walks inside. 

Arthur has only seen him look this anxious one time, and that was when Arthur was dying. He bites back a smile, tries his best to appear kingly and formal. 

And then Merlin starts to make his way down the aisle, and any urge to laugh slowly fades as Arthur takes in his appearance in full. 

He’d absolutely refused Arthur’s attempt to have him dress in robes ‒ “ _I’m not a lord, you prat!”_ he’d snapped, blushing like a maiden ‒ and instead wears a pair of tailored black trousers and a blue tunic, not unlike Arthur’s own. 

He looks different. He looks _lovely_. And his expression shifts as he walks, as each careful step brings him closer to Arthur. The nervousness slips away, morphing into something deep and intense. He looks Arthur right in the eye as he walks, and Arthur looks right back. 

The murmuring has stopped. The only sounds are Merlin’s quiet steps and Arthur’s quickened breathing. 

He gets to the foot of the dais. He walks up the steps. His eyes do not leave Arthur’s. 

And Arthur watches, throat tight, breathing ragged, as Merlin kneels at his feet. 

And now it’s Arthur’s turn to speak, only he _can’t._ He can hardly tear his eyes from Merlin’s ‒ _gods,_ those _eyes_ ‒ much less open his mouth and force air out. 

Merlin smiles, just a little, but it’s enough to bring Arthur back to the moment, to remind him that he has a very important speech to give. 

He wills his gaze away, looking out at the court. 

“Today, we are gathered to celebrate a man who has spent nearly a decade as a loyal servant to Camelot.” Arthur’s voice shakes, just a little. And then he takes a deep breath, reminds himself that today is probably the singular most important day of Merlin’s life, reminds himself that Merlin deserves every ounce of respect and strength that Arthur would show any knight or lord. More, even. And when he speaks again, his words come out strong and true. 

“In my years as Prince, and now King of Camelot, I have been continually amazed by the loyalty, devotion, and humility shown by Merlin. He has sacrificed more for the sake of this kingdom than any man I know, and he did it all while harboring a gift that ‒”

Arthur’s voice begins to crack. He fights it back, lifting his chin. “ ‒ that could have very well resulted in his execution. Such loyalty is only spoken of in the greatest of stories, yet I have witnessed it now, with my own eyes. 

“For his sheer devotion, as well as his talent in the realm of magic, Merlin will be rewarded with the title of Court Sorcerer.”

He glances at Merlin, then, and feels a gust of emotion at the pure gratefulness, the _pride,_ in his eyes. 

“In the coming years, I am certain he will provide invaluable counsel, and I look forward to working with him to protect Camelot and all her citizens.”

Arthur steps forward, then, and makes a gesture with his right hand. A servant comes to his side, holding a crimson pillow, and Arthur gives her a grateful smile as he lifts up the pin that sits there. 

She steps back, and then it’s only Arthur and Merlin. The rest of the court seems to dissolve as the two men lock eyes. 

Arthur lifts the pin ‒ a beautiful silver dragon, inlaid with blue jewels ‒ with a shaking hand. He steps closer, resting a hand on Merlin’s shoulder. 

“Rise.”

Merlin does, and he’s so close now, and he’s looking at Arthur as if he’s _everything,_ and gods, Arthur thinks that he was wrong about the night in the banquet hall, when he’d thought that every moment with Merlin had led to his demonstration of magic in front of the court. 

No. It had led to _this_ moment. Merlin standing in front of Arthur, eyes shining with so much love that Arthur thinks he might suffocate from the sheer strength of it. 

And Arthur. Fully recognizing and accepting him for who he is. After years of secrets, of lies and denial and longing and pain, they are _here.  
_

Arthur reaches out and pins the dragon to Merlin’s tunic. He steps back, gesturing for Merlin to come stand beside him. 

“I present to you,” Arthur calls out, the words sounding for all the world like a battle cry, like a declaration of the utmost pride, “Merlin. Court Sorcerer of Camelot!”

The crowd erupts with applause, and Arthur watches Merlin as he gazes out at them, mouth slightly open, eyes shining with unshed tears. 

And then he looks at Arthur and smiles and Arthur thinks: _I love you._

And he knows, somehow, that Merlin is thinking it, too.

* * *

That night, Arthur goes to him. 

Merlin has his own chambers now, due to his new rank, but he’s yet to move any of his things, so Arthur knows he’ll still be in Gaius’s room. 

So, as the evening turns dark and heavy, the moon rising high in the sky, Arthur departs his chambers and walks, legs damn near trembling, through the castle. He makes it to Gaius’s and knocks on the door. Merlin is the one who answers. 

He’s still wearing his clothes from earlier, and Arthur spies the dragon still pinned to his tunic. His mouth parts slightly when he sees Arthur, as if surprised.

A moment later, however, something in his eyes shifts, and Arthur knows that he’s realized why Arthur has come to him at such a late hour.

He asks anyways. 

“Come to my chambers?” 

The words are so very soft and unsure and laced with no small amount of fear. 

Merlin’s eyes darken, just slightly, and Arthur can’t breath. 

A moment later, he nods. He steps outside, closing the door behind him. Arthur turns, clasps his shaking hands in front of him, and begins to walk. 

They’re silent as Arthur leads them through the castle, their footsteps the only thing to break the quiet castle air. 

They’ve spoken enough, Arthur thinks. 

Then they’re at Arthur’s chambers, and he’s struggling to get the door open, and he might feel embarrassed if he was able to think of anything coherent right now. 

“Let me,” Merlin says quietly. There’s a click then, and the door swings open on its own, and _gods,_ Arthur’s never going to get used to the feeling he gets when Merlin does that, is he? _Never_. 

He steps inside, making his way towards the fireplace. It flickers softly, and he watches Merlin as he reaches out a hand and whispers that same incarnation ‒ “ _baern”_ ‒ and the flames leap up, sudden and hot, casting bright orange and yellow light against the stone walls. 

Merlin turns towards him. He walks up to Arthur, and now that he’s close, Arthur can see that _his_ hands are shaking, too. 

Each step brings him closer, closer. Arthur can’t take his eyes off of him, thinks he probably couldn’t look away if the castle started crumbling around them. 

When he’s close enough that Arthur could count his lashes, he pauses. Waiting, as always, to follow Arthur’s lead. 

He reaches out, removing the pin and walking over to the fireplace to set it on the mantle before returning to his spot. He gently takes the end of Merlin’s tunic, hears Merlin’s sharp intake of breath. He seems to know what Arthur wants instinctively ‒ hasn’t he always, though? ‒ and lifts up his arms. 

Arthur pulls the tunic off of him, feels a fresh swell of affection when Merlin emerges with his dark hair ruffled. 

His affection quickly transforms into something else entirely when Merlin reaches out to take the end of _his_ tunic. Then it’s Arthur’s turn to lift his arms, and the shirt is being pulled over his head. 

He looks at Merlin, watches the flames dance across the pale plain of his chest, and _fuck,_ Arthur is already breathing raggedly, already feeling dizzy. 

And Merlin is staring at him with eyes so dark, so filled with _want_ . He breathes, “ _Arthur,_ ” ‒ just like he did that evening ‒ and then Arthur makes a choked noise and pulls Merlin flush up against him.

Their lips are inches apart, and even though Arthur’s heart is beating wild with need, he takes a moment to just breathe him in, placing his forehead on Merlin’s and exhaling shakily. 

“ _Kiss me,_ ” Merlin whispers. 

And Arthur does. 

He places one hand on Merlin’s shoulder and the other on his jaw and presses his lips to Merlin’s, and Arthur feels a jolt of something like heaven shoot right through him the moment they touch. 

It’s chaste, at first, their lips moving together gently, and Arthur lets out a sigh at the feeling of Merlin’s mouth molding to his own. 

And then there’s the sweep of Merlin’s tongue against his lips, and Arthur opens his mouth and ‒

 _Holy gods,_ Arthur thinks, because Merlin’s tongue is brushing up against his, and it’s hot and wet and better than fucking _anything_ Arthur has ever felt. He lets out a soft groan, and then he’s cupping Merlin’s jaw with both hands, moving in to press their bodies even closer together. 

And Merlin’s lips are soft and his tongue is perfect, but Arthur wants _more,_ and before he even realizes he’s doing it, he’s pushing Merlin back, back, until his body hits the wall, and _yes,_ that’s more like it. 

He tears his lips away from Merlin’s, pressing his mouth, his _teeth_ to Merlin’s neck, and all he can think is _finally, finally,_ finally. He bites softly just above Merlin’s pulse point, and then Merlin moans softly and gods, that’s enough to make Arthur’s mind go blank. 

“You have no idea,” Merlin whispers, hoarse, tilting his head to give Arthur better access as he kisses and sucks and bites his way down Merlin’s throat, “how many times I thought ‒ _ah_ ‒ thought about this.”

“Hm?” Arthur says, because he can’t think past the way Merlin is moving against him, the way he’s giving sharp, airy gasps. 

“Sometimes,” Merlin chokes out, “I’d see you ‒ after training or ‒ or even just ‒ sitting at your table and I wanted you to ‒”

Arthur detaches himself from Merlin’s neck, lips drifting back up to hover over Merlin’s. His heartbeat is pounding in his ears and he stares at Merlin’s eyes, pupils blown so wide the blue is all but drowning in black, and _fuck,_ he still can’t believe this is happening. “What did you want?” he asks, sounding wrecked already, and if this is how kissing Merlin makes him feel, Arthur has no idea how he’s going to make it through the night alive. 

“I wanted you,” Merlin says, “to push me up against the nearest wall and _fuck me."_

Arthur presses his forehead against Merlin’s, closes his eyes and moans, and he knows that he’s never going to be able to unhear that, knows that Merlin’s voice as he said that ‒ low and dark and _hot_ ‒ is going to live forever in his head. 

“Please,” Merlin whispers, then, and presses his body right up against Arthur’s, so that he can feel all of him. 

Arthur rushes forward, kissing him again, and Merlin’s making this noise in the back of his throat, and then Arthur is pulling him away from the wall and pushing him towards the bed. 

And it’s like a fever dream, almost, the way it all feels. _This is happening,_ he thinks, over and over in his head, as he kicks off his shoes and gets onto the bed, watching as Merlin removes his own boots with trembling hands. After they’re off, Arthur leans back onto his pillows and pulls Merlin roughly into his lap. 

And then Merlin is straddling him, their hips aligning, the action making a jolt of pleasure shoot right through him. And then Arthur watches ‒ feels his heart stutter and fucking _stop_ ‒ when Merlin throws his head back, eyes closing, and moans, long and deep. 

“ _Fuck,_ Merlin,” Arthur says, hoarse. And Merlin, the cheeky bastard, has the gall to smirk, although Arthur can tell he’s just as affected, just as breathless and wild, by the way his chest heaves and his hands grip Arthur’s thighs. 

Then he opens his eyes, looks right at Arthur, and rolls his hips. 

And now it’s Arthur’s turn to moan, eyes slipping shut of their own accord, head turning to the side. He sucks in a deep breath, trying to pull himself together, but then Merlin does it again, and again, and _again._

He starts up a steady pace, and Arthur can’t breath, he _can’t breath._ Literally. 

“ _Breath,_ Arthur,” he hears Merlin say, and Arthur knows that Merlin is smirking without having to look. 

“Shut up, Merlin,” he hisses, “and just ‒ oh, _gods,_ yes.”

He opens his eyes, then, and the sight of Merlin on top of him, chest glistening with sweat, eyes glazed over with pleasure, is like something out of a dream, and he still can’t believe this is happening, still can’t believe that it’s _Merlin_ making him feel this way. 

“Merlin,” he breathes, and then Merlin is bending down, hovering over him, hips still going. He looks Arthur in the eye, touching a hand to Arthur’s cheek, stroking it gently. “I’m not going to last,” he admits, cheeks burning. 

Merlin doesn’t laugh, though. He moves even faster, now, and moans softly before leaning down, lips right up against Arthur’s ear, and murmuring, “Whatever you want, Arthur. I’ll do whatever you want.”

And gods, Arthur’s not going to lie ‒ watching Merlin act like this, seeing his blissed out expression as he tells Arthur he can have him in any way he wants ‒ feels fucking good. 

But Merlin has spent years and years following Arthur, has done _whatever he wants_ for nearly a decade. 

He decides, right then and there, that he wants Merlin to decide what he wants, wants Merlin to be the one who’s leading tonight. 

So, Arthur reaches up, presses his hand to Merlin’s cheek and breathes, “ _Tell me._ ”

And Merlin, as he always does, understands. His eyes go even darker, somehow, and then he abruptly stills his hips. And Arthur is about to whine ‒ gods, probably _literally whine_ ‒ in complaint when Merlin leans down once more, presses his forehead to Arthur’s and whispers, “I want you inside me.”

Arthur’s heart stops. His entire body goes tight, and a wave of heat washes over him, because _gods,_ even the thought of that is enough to make him feel completely wrecked. And Merlin misunderstands, pulls away a bit and says, unsure, “You don’t ‒ you don’t have to, if you don’t want ‒”

A moment later, Arthur has them flipped over. He hovers over Merlin and bites back a smile at the shocked expression on Merlin’s face. He leans in. Puts his lips by Merlin’s ear.

“I _want_ to,” he says.

Merlin lets his head fall back against the pillow, eyes squeezing shut. “Good,” he chokes out, and if Arthur might’ve laughed if he weren’t shaking and sweating and thinking _fuck, I’m going to do this, we’re actually going to do this._

Arthur has never wanted anything more in his life. 

He also has no idea what he’s doing. 

He sits up for a moment, rising from where he’d been resting his elbows on either side of Merlin’s body, breathing heavily and trying to figure out what to say. His mind is already a whirl of incoherence, and he can barely string five words together, much less admit that he’s clueless when it comes to doing this with another man. 

Merlin stares up at him, frowning slightly, and damn it, Arthur doesn’t want _that._ So, he turns his head away, face burning, and says lowly, “I ‒ um ‒ I’m not sure how to ‒” he breaks off, running a hand through his hair, and gives Merlin a meaningful look. 

Merlin’s uncertainty morphs into sweet understanding, and he nods. “I’ll show you,” he says. 

And he does. He shows Arthur what to use and how to use it, retrieving a vial of oil from Arthur’s bedside table ‒ usually used for aches and pains after a hard day’s training, and Arthur briefly thinks that he’s never going to be able to look at it the same way after this ‒ and a few minutes later, Merlin is under him and Arthur is on top, and they’re stripped of their trousers and smallclothes, and suddenly Arthur feels as though he’s fucking _frozen._

Merlin is breathing hard and ragged already, face flushed from when he’d shown Arthur how to work him open, and every sound makes Arthur’s body more and more tense, makes him feel as though he’s pulled tight like a bowstring. His heartbeat is going fast, so _fast,_ pounding in his ears, and Merlin just waits, not saying anything, somehow sensing that Arthur needs a moment to gather himself. 

Arthur sucks in a deep breath, trembling, and pushes in. 

He goes slowly, inch by inch, Merlin gasping underneath him, and Arthur can’t believe this, he _can’t believe this._ He watches Merlin’s face as he bottoms out, watches those dark blue eyes widen slightly, watches his mouth part and watches him tremble, and Arthur thinks that he needs this every day for the rest of his life or he’ll _die._

 _Merlin._ His best friend. His right hand. His protector and his other half. 

Arthur pulls out, gasping, and pushes back in. 

Merlin lets out a high, keening moan, and Arthur has never once in his life felt like this, every piece of him drowning in the way Merlin feels around him. 

He rocks his hips, slow at first, each movement sending a shockwave of pleasure right through him. 

Memories flash through his mind, images and words and feelings. 

_“I could take you apart with one blow.”_

_A slow smirk and_ ‒ “ _I could take you apart with less than that.”_

He moves faster, and Merlin’s breath hitches, hands reaching up to grasp Arthur’s shoulders and squeezing _tight._

_A crackling fireplace, and Merlin’s wrapped up in a blanket, still shivering from the aftereffects of the poison._

_He tells Arthur, “Thank you,” and Arthur can only gaze back in surprise_ ‒ _in fondness_ ‒ _at the gratitude, in Merlin’s eyes._

_“Get some rest.”_

Merlin is shaking underneath him, now, is letting out these fucking _beautiful_ noises, and gods, Arthur feels like his entire body is on fire. 

_“Good to see you, Merlin,” Arthur says, reaching forward to grab Merlin’s shoulder and squeeze gently, even though every single fiber of his being is saying_ just hug him, idiot. 

_“Good to see you, too,” Merlin says, so sweetly, and Arthur’s heart clenches, a wave of pure warmth sweeping right through him._

Arthur collapses forward, leaning down to press his elbows onto the bed, bracketing Merlin’s body in his arms. 

“Arthur,” Merlin groans, the change of angle making his whole body tighten, chest heaving. And then Arthur shifts slightly, and suddenly Merlin lets out a sharp cry, almost pained, and Arthur immediately stills. 

“Merlin?” he asks, breathless. “Are you ‒”

“No, Arthur, _Arthur_ ‒ ” The way Merlin says his name is reverent, and Arthur actually fucking _blushes._ “Do that ‒ do that again, please, _please."_

He thrusts once and Merlin throws his head back, jaw going slack with pleasure. “Oh _gods,_ ” he moans, and then Arthur is moving again, rocking into him over and over just to hear that sound. 

_Merlin’s voice is filled with such surety, such faith. “I’m going to make you see that Tristan’s wrong. You aren’t just anyone. You are special. You and you alone can draw out that sword.”_

_And Arthur does, and Merlin is there with him, standing by him, looking at Arthur with eyes that are bright with pride. Pride and_ ‒

Arthur’s body tightens, shaking, and he knows he’s getting close, knows that Merlin is too. They move together, gasping, and Arthur lifts himself up, pulling away so he can place a hand on Merlin’s cheek. They lock eyes. 

Arthur says, breathless, lit up, _on fire_ ‒ “I love you,” and then Merlin is arching his back, crying out, and Arthur follows a moment later, mouth dropping open, soundless with pleasure as he peaks. And he's thinking that this, _this_ is heaven, thinks that there is no eternal paradise, no _anything_ that could compare. 

‒ _love._

* * *

The night goes on, but neither man sleeps. Arthur leans back against his pillows, Merlin huddled into his chest. He plays with Merlin’s dark hair, running his fingers through the short strands and staring up at the canopy with a soft smile. 

Merlin looks at him, then, tilting his chin up to gaze at him lovingly. “I think,” he begins, in that cheeky voice, and Arthur just _knows_ he’s about to be embarrassed, “you’ve been smiling for the past two hours.”

Arthur ought to tug at his hair or say _shut up, Merlin,_ but instead he just shrugs and admits, cheeks burning ‒ “I’m happy.”

And gods, Merlin just outright _melts,_ and Arthur makes a mental note to occasionally ‒ _only_ occasionally ‒ make a few sappy comments in the future if it’ll make Merlin look at him like that. 

“Me, too,” he says, burying his face in Arthur’s chest once more. 

There’s a comfortable silence, and then, a few minutes later ‒ 

“I love you, too.”

Arthur just pulls Merlin closer, dropping a kiss onto his head. 

Three little words. Said a million times, probably, over the course of history. And it’s such a _simple_ statement, really. 

Only for Arthur, it was hardly simple at all. 

Ten years. Ten years of friendship and longing, of desire and of _love,_ all hidden away. All kept trapped inside an aching heart, under layers of fear and self-loathing and guilt. 

But Arthur looks at Merlin, then, watching as he slowly falls asleep, as eyes fall shut and his breathing evens out, and thinks: _we got there, in the end._

Arthur loves Merlin. Merlin loves Arthur. 

This is the ending they get, after all the hell they’ve been through. 

This is the ending they deserve.


End file.
